W-*  ^-ir-^ 


, 


Memoirs    of   a    Midget 


44 


BY  THE   SAME   AUTHOR 

THE  THREE 
MULLA-MULGARS 

Illustrated  by  Dorothy  P.  Lathrop. 

THE  story  concerns  the  adventures 
of  three  monkeys  of  royal  blood 
...  a  tale  of  strange  creatures  and 
strange  landscapes,  of  adventures  and 
misadventures  in  faery  forests.  One 
of  those  rare  books  that  everyone  will 
love. 

"Miss     Lathrop's     illustrations     have 
placed  her,  at  a  bound,  in  the  first  rank 
of    American    imaginative    illustrators. 
— Chicago  Evening  Post. 

Boxed,  $4.00  net  at  all  bookshops 
NEW  YORK:  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 


MEMOIRS 
^MIDGET 


^ii^^^^^^^^^^O^ 


»\«\LTER*/.MARE 


NEW  YORK     MCMXXI 

ALFRED  'A'  KNOPF 


*.♦.«  *.-••  *.-.«  *.-#'  »•-•'  *.♦.'  *.*.«  •*%•  •'T7.*  *«-T*  *7-7'  ♦I7;*  S7;* 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
WALTER   DE   LA   MARE 

Publishtd,  January,  1922 


Set    up  and  printed  by  th<     Vail-Ballou   Co.,   Binghamtorv,  N.   Y. 
Paper   furnished    by    II".    /•'.    Etherington    &    Co.,   New    York,    X .    Y. 
Bound    by    the    Plimpton    Press,    Norwood,    Mass. 


MANUFACTURED     IN     T N  ITKli    STATKS    <>K    AMERICA 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  MOTHER 


A  wild  beast  there  is  in  AZgypt,  called  orix,  which  the  Mgyp- 
tians  say,  doth  stand  full  against  the  dog  starve  when  it  riseth, 
lookcth  wistly  upon  it,  and  tcstifieth  after  a  sort  by  snccsing,  a  kind 
of  worship.  .  .  . 

Philemon  Holland. 

'Did'st  thou  ever  see  a  lark  in  a  cage?  Such  is  the  soul  in  the 
body:  this  world  is  like  her  little  turf  of  grass;  and  the  heaven  o'er 
our  heads,  like  her  looking-glass,  only  gives  its  a  miserable  knowledge 
of  the  small  compass  of  our  prison.  .  .  .' 

John  Webster. 

'Provoke  them  not,  fair  sir,  with  tempting  words;  the  heavens 
are  gracious.  .  .  .' 

Thomas  Kyd. 


Contents 

Introduction 

13 

Lyndsey 

19 

Beechwood 

71 

Wanderslore 

155 

Lyme  Regis 

239 

London 

263 

Monks'  House 

355 

Wanderslore 

399 

Lyndsey 

433 

Memoirs    of    a    Midget 


Introduction 

A  FEW  introductory  and  explanatory  remarks  are  due,  I 
think,  to  the  reader  of  the  following  Memoirs.  The 
Memoirs  themselves  will  disclose  how  I  became  acquainted 
with  Miss  M.  They  also  refer  here  and  there  to  the  small  part  I 
was  enabled  to  take  in  straightening  matters  out  at  what  was  a 
critical  juncture  in  her  affairs,  and  in  securing  for  her  that  inde- 
pendence which  enabled  her  to  live  in  the  privacy  she  loved,  with- 
out any  anxiety  as  to  ways  and  means.  At  the  time,  it  is  clear  that 
she  considered  me  a  dilatory  intermediary.  I  had  not  realized 
how  extreme  was  her  need.  But  she  came  at  last  to  take  a  far  too 
generous  view  of  these  trifling  little  services — services  as  gener- 
ously rewarded,  since  they  afforded  me  the  opportunity  of  fre- 
quently seeing  her,  and  so  of  becoming,  as  I  hope,  one  of  her  most 
devoted  friends. 

One  of  the  duties  devolving  on  me  as  her  sole  executor — certain 
unusual  legal  proceedings  having  been  brought  to  completion — 
was  the  examination  of  her  letters  and  papers.  Amongst 
these  were  her  Memoirs — which  I  found  sealed  up  with  her 
usual  scrupulous  neatness  in  numerous  small,  square,  brown- 
paper  packages,  and  laid  carefully  away  in  a  cupboard  in  her 
old  nursery.  They  were  accompanied  by  a  covering  letter 
addressed  to  myself. 

Miss  M.'s  handwriting  was  even  more  minute  than  one 
might  naturally,  though  not  perhaps  justifiably,  have  antici- 
pated. Her  manuscript  would  therefore  have  been  difficult 
enough  for  aging  eyes  to  decipher,  even  if  it  had  not  been  almost 
inextricably  interlined,  revised  and  corrected.  Literary  com- 
position to  this  little  woman-of-letters  was  certainly  no  "primrose 
path."  The  packages  were  therefore  handed  over  to  a  trust- 
worthy typist  ;  and,  at  my  direction,  one  complete  and  accurate 
copy  was  made  of  their  contents. 

After  careful  consideration,  and  after  disguising  the  names  of 

13 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

certain  persons  and  places  to  preclude  every  possibility  of  giving 
offence — even  Mrs  Percy  Maudlen,  for  instance,  if  she  ever 
scans  these  pages,  may  blush  unrecognized ! — I  concluded  that 
though  I  was  under  no  absolute  ooligation  to  secure  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Memoirs,  this  undoubtedly  had  been  Miss  M.'s  in- 
tention and  wish.  At  the  same  time,  and  for  similar  reasons,  I 
decided  that  their  publication  should  not  take  place  until  after  my 
death.  Instructions  have  therefore  been  left  by  me  to  this 
effect.  Here  then  my  editorial  duties  begin  and  end.  Noth- 
ing has  been  altered ;  nothing  suppressed. 

Even  if  such  a  task  were  within  my  province,  I  should  not  ven- 
ture to  make  any  critical  estimate  of  Miss  M.'s  work.  I  am  not 
a  writer :  and,  as  a  reader,  have  an  inveterate  preference  to  be 
allowed  to  study  and  enjoy  my  authors  with  as  little  external  in- 
tervention as  possible.  The  perusal  of  the  Memoirs  has  afforded 
me  the  deepest  possible  pleasure.  The  serious-minded  may  none 
the  less  dismiss  a  midget's  lucubrations  as  trifling ;  and  no  doubt — 
it  could  hardly  be  otherwise — a  more  practised  taste  than  mine 
will  discover  many  faults,  crudities,  and  inconsistencies  in  them, 
though  certain  little  prejudices  on  Miss  M.'s  side  may  not  be  so 
easily  detectable.  Whatever  their  merits  or  imperfections  may  be, 
I  should  be  happy  to  think  that  the  following  pages  may  prove  as 
interesting  to  other  readers — however  few — as  they  have  been  to 
myself. 

My  own  prejudices,  I  confess,  are  in  Miss  M.'s  favour.  In- 
deed, she  herself  assured  me  in  the  covering  letter  to  which 
reference  has  been  made,  that  a  chance  word  of  mine  had  been 
her  actual  incentive  to  composition — the  remark,  in  fact,  that 
"the  truth  about  even  the  least  of  things — c.  g.,  your  Self,  Miss 
M. ! — may  be  a  taper  in  whose  beam  one  may  peep  at  the  truth 
about  everything."  I  cannot  recall  the  occasion,  or  this  little 
apophthegm.  Indeed,  only  with  extreme  reluctance  would  I 
have  helped  to  launch  my  small  friend  on  her  gigantic  ordeal. 
As  a  matter-of-fact,  she  had  a  little  way  of  carrying  off  scraps 
of  the  conversation  of  the  "common-sized,"  as  a  bee  carries  off  a 
drop  of  nectar,  and  of  transforming  them  into  a  honey  all  her 
own. 

As  characteristic  of  her  is  the  fact  that  during  the  whole  time 
she  was  engaged  on  her  writing  (and  there  is  ample  evidence  in 
14 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ner  manuscript  that,  whether  in  fatigue,  disinclination,  or  despair, 
she  sometimes  left  it  untouched  for  weeks  together)  she  never 
made  the  faintest  allusion  to  it.  Authors,  I  believe — if  I  may 
take  the  elder  Disraeli  for  my  authority — are  seldom  so  secretive 
concerning  their  activities.  No  less  characteristically,  her  letter 
to  me  was  dated  February  14th.  Her  Memoirs  were  to  be  my 
Valentine. 

"  'Little  drops  of  water  .  .  .'  my  dear  Sir  Walter,"  she  wrote; 
"you  know  the  rest.  Nevertheless,  if  only  I  had  been  given  but 
one  sharp  spark  of  genius,  what  'infinite  pains'  I  should  have 
been  spared.  Yet  what  is  here  concerns  only  my  early  days,  and 
chiefly  one  long  year  of  them.  I  might  have  written  on — almost 
ad  infinitum.  liut  I  did  not,  because  I  feared  to  weary  us  bodi 
— of  myself.  The  years  that  have  followed  my  'coming  of 
age'  have  been  outwardly  uneventful;  and  other  people's 
thoughts,  I  find,  are  not  so  interesting  as  their  experiences. 
There's  much  to  forgive  in  what  I  have  written — the  rawness,  the 
self-consciousness,  the  vanity,  the  folly.  I  am  older  now;  but 
am  I  wiser — or  merely  not  so  young? 

"Just  as  it  stands,  then,  I  shall  leave  my  story  to,  and  for,  you. 
.  .  .  Again  and  again,  as  I  have  pored  over  the  scenes  of  my 
memory,  I  have  asked  myself:  What  can  life  be  about? 
What  does  it  mean?  What  was  my  true  course?  Where  my 
compass?  How  many  times,  too,  have  I  vainly  speculated 
what  inward  difference  being  a  human  creature  of  my  dimen- 
sions really  makes.  What  is — deep,  deep  in — at  variance  be- 
tween Man  and  Midget?  You  may  discover  this;  even  if  /  never 
shall.  For  after  all,  life's  beads  are  all  on  one  string,  however 
loosely  threaded  they  may  seem  to  be. 

"I  have  tried  to  tell  nothing  but  the  truth  about  myself.  But  I 
realize  that  it  cannot  be  the  whole  truth.  For  while  so  engaged 
(just  as  when  one  peers  into  a  looking-glass  in  the  moonlight)  a 
something  has  at  times  looked  out  of  some  secret  den  or  niche  in 
me,  and  then  has  vanished.  Supposing,  then,  my  dear  Sir  W..  my 
story  convinces  you  that  all  these  years  you  have  unawares  been 
harbouring  in  your  friendship  not  a  woman,  scarcely  a  human  be- 
ing, but  an  ASP!  Oh  dear,  and  oh  dear!  Well,  there  are  three 
and-thirty  ingredients  (ingrediments  as  I  used  to  call  them,  when 
I  was  a  child)  in  that  sovran  antidote,  Venice  Treacle.     Scatter  a 

15 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pennyweight  of  it  upon  my  tombstone;  and  so  lay  my  in-fi-ni-te- 
si-mal  ap-pa-ri-ti-on ! 

"Maybe  though,  there  are  not  so  very  many  vital  differences 
between  'midgets'  and  people  of  the  common  size;  no  more,  per- 
haps, than  there  are  between  them  and  'the  Great.'  Even  then  it 
is  possible  that  after  reading  my  small,  endless  story  you  may  be 
very  thankful  that  you  are  not  a  Midget  too. 

"Whether  or  not,  I  have  tried  to  be  frank,  if  not  a  Warning. 
Keep  or  destroy  what  I  have  written,  as  you  will.  But  please 
show  it  to  nobody  until  nobody  would  mind.     And  now,  good-bye. 

'  "M." 

There  was  a  tacit  compact  between  Miss  M.  and  myself  that 
I  should  visit  her  at  Lyndsey  about  once  a  month.  Business, 
indisposition,  advancing  age,  only  too  frequently  made  the  journey 
impracticable.  But  in  general,  I  would  at  such  intervals  find  my- 
self in  her  company  at  her  old  house,  Stonecote ;  drinking  tea 
with  her,  gossiping,  or  reading  to  her,  while  she  sat  in  her  chair 
beside  my  book,  embroidering  her  brilliant  tiny  flowers  and  beetles 
and  butterflies  with  her  tiny  needle,  listening  or  day-dreaming  or 
musing  out  of  the  high  window  at  the  prospect  of  Chizzel  Hill. 

At  times  she  was  an  extremely  quiet  companion.  At  others 
she  would  rain  questions  on  me,  many  of  them  exceedingly  uncon- 
ventional, on  a  score  of  subjects  at  once,  scarcely  pausing  for 
answers  which  I  was  frequently  at  a  loss  to  give.  In  a  mixed 
company  she  was,  perhaps,  exaggeratedly  conscious  of  her  minute- 
stature. 

But  in  these  quiet  talks — that  shrill-sweet  voice,  those  impulsive 
little  gestures — she  forgot  it  altogether.  Not  so  her  visitor,  who 
must  confess  to  having  been  continually  convicted  in  her  presence 
of  a  kind  of  clumsiness  and  gaucherie — and  that,  I  confess,  not 
merely  physical.  To  a  stranger  this  experience,  however  whole- 
some, might  be  a  little  humiliating. 

When  interested,  Miss  M.  would  sit  perfectly  still,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  piercing,  yet 
curiously  remote,  scrutiny.  In  complete  repose,  her  features  lost 
this  keenness,  and  she  became  an  indescribably  beautiful  little 
figure,  in  her  bright-coloured  clothes,  in  the  large  quiet  room. 
I  can  think  of  no  comparison  that  would  not  seem  fanciful.  Her 
16 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

self  is  to  some  extent  in  her  hook.  And  yet  that  unique  volatile 
presence,  so  frail,  yet  so  vigorous,  "so  very  nearly  nothing,"  in  her 
own  whimsical  phrase,  is  only  fitfully  manifest. 

Naturally  enough,  she  loved  solitude.  But  1  am  inclined  to 
think  she  indulged  in  it  to  excess.  It  was.  at  any  rate,  in  solitude 
that  she  wrote  her  hook;  and  in  solitude  apparently  that  her  un- 
known visitor  found  her,  in  the  following  mysterious  circum- 
stances. 

The  last  of  our  reunions — and  one  no  less  happy  than  the  rest — 
was  towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  March.  On  the  morning 
of  the  following  25th  of  April  1  received  a  telegram  summoning 
me  to  Lyndsey.  I  arrived  there  the  same  afternoon,  and  was  ad- 
mitted by  Mrs  Bowater,  Miss  M.'s  excellent,  lint  somewhat  Dick- 
ensian,  housekeeper,  then  already  a  little  deaf  and  elderly.  I  found 
her  in  extreme  distress.  It  appeared  that  the  evening  before, 
about  seven  o'clock,  Mrs  Bowater  had  heard  voices  in  the  house 
— Miss  M.'s  and  another's.  Friendly  callers  were  infrequent;  un- 
familiar ones  extremely  rare ;  and  Mrs  Bowater  confessed  that 
she  had  felt  some  curiosity,  if  not  concern,  as  to  who  this  stranger 
might  he,  and  how  he  had  gained  admission.  She  blamed  her- 
self beyond  measure — though  I  endeavoured  to  reassure  the  goo  J 
woman — for  not  instantly  setting  her  misgivings  at  rest. 

Hearing  nothing  more,  except  the  rain  beating  at  the  basement 
window,  at  half-past  seven  she  went  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Miss 
M  .'s  door.  The  large,  pleasant  room — her  old  nursery — at  the 
top  of  the  house,  was  in  its  usual  scrupulous  order,  but  vacant. 
Nothing  was  disarranged,  nothing  unusual,  except  only  that  a 
slip  of  paper  had  been  pinned  to  the  carpet  a  little  beyond  the 
threshold,  with   this  message:     "I  have  been  called  away. —  M." 

This  communication,  far  from  soothing,  only  increased  Mrs 
Bowater's  anxiety.  She  searched  the  minute  Sheraton  ward- 
robe, and  found  that  a  garden  hat  and  cape  were  missing.  She 
waited  a  while — unlike  her  usual  self — at  a  loss  what  to  be  do- 
ing, and  peering  out  of  the  window.  But  as  darkness  was  corn- 
in-  on,  and  Miss  M.  rarely  went  out  in  windy  or  showery 
weather,  or  indeed  descended  the  staircase  without  assistance,  she 
became  so  much  alarmed  that  a  little  before  eight  she  set  out  to 
explore  the  garden  with  a  stable  lantern,  and  afterwards  hur- 
ried off  to  the  village  for  assistance. 

17 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

As  the  reader  will  himself  discover,  this  was  not  the  first  oc- 
casion on  which  Miss  M.  had  given  her  friends  anxiety.  The 
house,  the  garden,  the  surrounding  district,  her  old  haunts  at 
Wanderslore  were  repeatedly  submitted  at  my  direction  to  the 
most  rigorous  and  protracted  search.  Watch  was  kept  on  the 
only  gipsy  encampment  in  the  neighbourhood,  near  the  Heath. 
Advertisement  failed  to  bring  me  any  but  false  clues.  At  length 
even  hope  had  to  be  abandoned. 

Miss  M.  had  been  "called  away."  By  whom?  I  ask  myself: 
on  what  errand?  for  what  purpose?  So  clear  and  unhurried 
was  the  writing  of  her  last  message  as  to  preclude,  I  think,  the 
afflicting  thought  that  her  visitor  had  been  the  cause  of  any 
apprehension  or  anxiety.  An  even  more  tragic  eventuality  is 
out  of  the  question.  After  the  events  recorded  in  her  last  chapter 
not  only  had  she  made  me  a  certain  promise,  but  her  later  life  at 
Lyndsey  had  been,  apparently,  perfectly  serene  and  happy.  Only 
a  day  or  two  before  she  had  laughed  up  at  her  housekeeper,  "Why, 
Mrs  Bowater,  there's  not  room  enough  in  me  for  all  that's  there !" 
Nor  is  it  to  be  assumed  that  some  "inward"  voice — her  own  fre- 
quent term — had  summoned  her  away;  for  Mrs  Bowater  im- 
movably maintains  that  its  tones  reached  her  ear,  though  she  her- 
self was  at  the  moment  engaged  in  the  kitchen  referred  to  in  the 
first  chapter  of  the  Memoirs. 

Walter  Dadus  Pollacke. 

Brunswick  House, 
Beech  wood. 


18 


Lyndsey 


Chapter    One 


SOME  few  years  ago  a  brief  account  of  me  found  its  way  into 
one  or  two  country  newspapers.  I  have  been  told,  that  it  re- 
appeared, later,  in  better  proportion,  in  the  Metropolitan 
Press!  Fortunately,  or  .unfortunately,  very  little  of  this  account 
was  true.  It  related,  among  other  things,  that  I  am  accustomed 
to  wear  shoes  with  leaden  soles  to  them  to  keep  me  from  being 
blown  away  lil<e  thistledown  in  the  wind,  that  as  a  child  I  had 
narrowly  escaped  being  scalded  to  death  in  a  soup  tureen,  that  one 
of  my  ancestors  came  from  Poland,  that  I  am  an  expert  painter 
of  miniatures,  that  I  am  a  changeling  and  can  speak  the  fairy 
tongue.     And  so  on  and  so  forth. 

I  think  I  can  guess  where  my  ingenuous  biographer  borrowed 
these  fables.  He  meant  me  no  harm ;  he  was  earning  his  living ; 
he  made  judicious  use  of  his  ''no  doubts"  and  "it  may  be  sup- 
posed" ;  and  I  hope  he  amused  his  readers.  But  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  his  account  was  concerned  with  mere  physical  particulars. 
He  had  looked  at  me  in  fancy  through  spectacles  which  may 
or  may  not  have  been  rosy,  but  which  certainly  minified.  I  do 
not  deserve  his  inches  and  ounces,  however  flattering  his 
intentions  may  have  been.  It  is  true  that  my  body  is  among 
the  smaller  works  of  God.  But  I  think  he  paid  rather  too 
much  attention  to  this  fact.  He  spared  any  reference  not  only 
to  my  soul  (and  T  am  not  ungrateful  for  that),  but  also  to  my 
mind  and  heart.  There  may  be  too  much  of  all  three  for  some 
tastes  in  the  following  pages,  and  especially,  perhaps,  of  the 
last.  That  cannot  be  helped.  Finally,  my  anonymous  journalist 
stated  that  I  was  born  in  Rutlandshire — because,  I  suppose,  it 
is  the  smallest  county  in  England. 

That  was  truly  unkind  of  him,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  and 
to  begin  at  the  (apparent)  beginning,  I  was  born  in  the  village 
of  Lyndsey  in  Kent — the  prettiest  country  spot,  as  1  believe, 
in   all   that  county's  million  acres.     So  it   remains   to  this   day 

21 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

in  spite  of  the  fact  that  since  my  childhood  its  little  church  with 
its  decaying  stones  and  unfading  twelfth — or  is  it  thirteenth? 
— century  glass  has  been  "restored,"  and  the  lord  of  the  manor 
has  felled  some  of  its  finest  trees,  including  a  grove  of  sweet 
chestnuts  on  Bitchett  Heath  whose  forefathers  came  over  with 
the  Romans.  But  he  has  not  yet  succeeded  in  levelling  the 
barrow  on  Chizzel  Hill.  From  my  window  I  looked  out  (indeed, 
look  out  at  this  moment)  to  the  wave-like  crest  of  this  beloved 
hill  across  a  long  straggling  orchard,  and  pastures  in  the  valley, 
where  cattle  grazed  and  sheep  wandered,  and  unpolled  willows 
stooped  and  silvered  in  the  breeze.  I  never  wearied  of  the 
hill,  nor  ever  shall,  and  when,  in  my  girlhood,  my  grandfather, 
aware  of  this  idle,  gazing  habit  of  mine,  sent  me  from  Geneva 
a  diminutive  telescope,  my  day-dreams  multiplied.  His  gift, 
as  an  old  Kentish  proverb  goes,  spread  butter  on  bacon.  With 
his  spyglass  to  my  eye  I  could  bring  a  tapping  green  wood- 
pecker as  close  as  if  it  were  actually  laughing  at  me,  and  could 
all  but  snuff  up  the  faint  rich  scent  of  the  cowslips — paggles,  as 
we  called  them,  in  meadows  a  good  mile  away. 

My  father's  house,  Stonecote,  has  a  rather  ungainly  appear- 
ance if  viewed  from  across  the  valley.  But  it  is  roomy  and 
open  and  fairly  challenges  the  winds  of  the  equinoxes.  Its  main 
windows  are  of  a  shallow  bow  shape.  One  of  them  is  among 
my  first  remembrances.  I  am  seated  in  a  bright  tartan  frock 
on  a  pomatum  pot — a  coloured  picture  of  Mr  Shandy,  as  I 
remember,  on  its  lid — and  around  me  are  the  brushes,  leather 
cases,  knick-knacks,  etc.,  of  my  father's  dressing  table.  My 
father  is  shaving  himself,  his  chin  and  cheeks  puffed  out  with 
soapsuds.  And  now  I  look  at  him,  and  now  at  his  reflection 
in  the  great  looking-glass,  and  every  time  that  happens  he 
makes  a  nleasant  grimace  at  me  over  his  spectacles. 

This  particular  moment  of  my  childhood  probably  fixed  itself 
on  my  mind  because  just  as,  with  razor  uplifted,  lie  was  about  to 
attack  bis  upper  lip,  a  jackdaw,  attracted  maybe  by  my  gay  clothes, 
fluttered  down  on  the  sill  outside,  and  fussing  and  scrabbling  with 
wing  and  claw  pecked  hard  with  its  beak  against  the  glass. 
The  sound  and  sight  of  this  bird  with  its  lively  grey-blue  eyes, 
so  close  and  ardent,  startled  me.  I  leapt  up,  ran  across  the  table, 
tripped  over  a  hairbrush,  and  fell  sprawling  beside  my  father's 
watch.     I  hear  its  ticking,  and  also  the  little  soothing  whistle  with 

22 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

which  he  was  wont  to  comfort  his  daughter  at  any  such  mishap. 
Then  perhaps  I  was  five  or  six. 

That  is  a  genuine  memory.  But  every  family,  I  suppose,  has 
its  little  pet  traditions;  and  one  of  ours,  relating  to  those  early 
years,  is  connected  with  our  kitchen  cat,  Miaou.  She  had  come 
by  a  family  of  kitti  ns,  and  I  had  crept,  so  it  was  said,  into  her 
shallow  baskel  with  them.  I  laving,  I  suppose,  been  too  frequently 
meddled  with,  this  old  mother  cat  lugged  off  her  kittens  one  hy 
one  to  a  dark  cupboard.  The  last  one  thus  secured,  she  was 
discovered  in  rapt  contemplation  of  myself,  as  if  in  debate  whether 
or  not  it  was  her  maternal  duty  to  carry  me  off  too.  And  there 
was  I  grinning  up  into  her  face.  Such  was  our  cook's — Mrs 
Ballard's — story.  What  I  actually  remember  is  different.  On  the 
morning  in  question  I  was  turning  the  corner  of  the  brick-fli  ored, 
dusk'}-  passage  that  led  to  the  kitchen,  when  Miaou  came  trotting 
along  out  of  it  with  her  blind,  blunt-headed  bundle  in  her  mouth. 
We  ware  equally  surprised  at  this  encounter,  and  in  brushing 
past  she  nearly  knocked  me  over  where  I  stood,  casting  me  at  the 
same  moment  the  queerest  animal  look-  out  of  her  eyes.  So  truth, 
in  this  case,  was  not  so  strange  as  Mrs  Ballard's  fiction. 

My  father  was  then  a  rather  corpulent  man,  with  a  high- 
coloured  face,  and  he  wore  large  spectacles.  His  time  was  his 
own,  for  wc  were  comfortably  off  on  an  income  derived  from 
a  half-share  in  the  small  fortune  amassed  by  my  grandfather 
and  his  partner  in  a  paper  mill.  He  might  have  been  a  more 
successful,  though  not  perhaps  a  happier,  man  if  he  had  done 
more  work  and  planned  to  do  less.  But  he  only  so  far  followed 
his  hereditary  occupation  as  to  expend  large  quantities  of  its 
best  "handmade"  in  the  composition  of  a  monograph:  The 
History  of  Paper  Making.  This  entailed  a  vast  accumulation  of 
books  and  much  solitude.  I  fancy,  too,  he  believed  in  the  policy 
of  sleeping  on  one's  first  thoughts. 

Since  he  was  engaged  at  the  same  time  on  similar  compilations 
with  the  Hop  and  the  Cherry  for  theme,  he  made  indifferent  pro- 
gress in  all  three.  I  lis  papers,  alas,  were  afterwards  sold  with 
his  books,  so  I  have  no  notion  of  what  became  of  them  or  of  their 
value.  I  can  only  hope  that  their  purchaser  has  since  won  an 
easy  distinction.  These  pursuits,  if  they  achieved  little  else  but 
the  keeping  of  "the  man  of  the  house"  quiet  and  contented,  proved 

23 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

my  father,  at  any  rate,  to  be  a  loyal  and  enthusiastic  Man  of 
Kent;  and  I  have  seen  to  it  that  a  fine  Morello  cherry-tree  blos- 
soms, fruits,  and  flourishes  over  his  grave. 

My  father  was  something  of  a  musician  too,  and  could 
pizzicato  so  softly  on  his  muted  fiddle  as  not  to  jar  even  my  too 
sensitive  ear.  He  taught  me  to  play  chess  on  a  little  board 
with  pygmy  men,  but  he  was  apt  to  lose  interest  in  the  game 
when  it  went  against  him.  Whereas  it  was  then  that  our  old 
friend.  Dr  Grose,  played  his  hardest.  As  my  father's  hands 
were  rather  clumsy  in  make,  he  took  pains  to  be  gentle  and 
adroit  with  me.  But  even  after  shaving,  his  embrace  was  more 
of  a  discipline  than  a  pleasure — a  fact  that  may  partly  account 
for  my  own  undemonstrativeness  in  this  direction. 

His  voice,  if  anything,  was  small  for  his  size,  except  when 
he  discussed  politics  with  Dr  Grose ;  religion  or  the  bringing 
up  of  children  with  my  godmother,  Miss  Fenne;  or  money 
matters  with  my  mother.  At  such  times,  his  noise — red  face  and 
gesticulations — affected  one  of  his  listeners,  as  eager  as  possible 
to  pick  up  the  crumbs,  far  more  than  ever  thunder  did,  which 
is  up  in  the  clouds.  My  only  other  discomfort  in  his  company 
was  his  habit  of  taking  snuff.  The  stench  of  it  almost  suffocated 
me,  and  at  tap  of  his  finger-nail  on  the  lid  of  his  box,  I  would 
scamper  off  for  shelter  like  a  hare. 

By  birth  he  came  of  an  old  English  family,  though  no  doubt 
with  the  usual  admixtures.  My  mother's  mother  was  French. 
She  was  a  Daundelyon.  The  blood  of  that  "sweet  enemy"  at 
times  burned  in  her  cheek  like  a  flag ;  and  my  father  needed  his 
heaviest  guns  when  the  stormy  winds  did  blow,  and  those  colours 
were  flying.  At  such  moments  I  preferred  to  hear  the  engage- 
ment from  a  distance,  not  so  much  (again)  because  the  mere 
discord  grieved  me,  as  to  escape  the  din.  But  usually — and 
especially  after  such  little  displays — they  were  like  two  turtle- 
doves, and  I  did  my  small  best  to  pipe  a  decoy. 

My  father  had  been  a  man  past  forty  when  he  married 
my  mother.  She  about  fifteen  years  younger — a  slim,  nimble, 
and  lovely  being,  who  could  slip  round  and  encircle  him  in  person 
or  mind  while  he  was  pondering  whether  or  not  to  say  Bo  to  a 
goose.  Seven  years  afterwards  came  I.  Friends,  as  friends  will, 
professed  to  see  a  likeness  between  us.  And  if  my  mother  could 
24 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

have  been  dwindled  down  to  be  of  my  height  and  figure,  perhaps 
they  would  have  been  justified. 

Rut  in  hair  and  complexion,  possibly  in  ways,  too,  I  harked 
back  to  an  aunt  of  hers,  Kitilda,  who  had  died  of  consumption 
in  her  early  twenties.  I  loved  to  hear  stories  of  my  great-aunt 
Kitilda.  She  sang  like  a  bird,  twice  ran  away  from  her  convent 
school,  and  was  so  fond  of  water  that  an  old  gentleman  (a  friend 
of  Mr  Landor's,  the  poet)  who  fell  in  love  with  her,  called  her 
"the  Naiad." 

My  mother,  in  her  youth  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  had  been 
considered  "a  beauty.*'  and  had  had  many  admirers — at  least 
so  Mrs  Ballard,  our  cook,  told  Pollie:  "Yes,  and  we  know  who 
might  have  turned  out  different  if  things  hadn't  been  the  same," 
was  a  cryptic  remark  she  once  made  which  filled  two  "little 
pitchers"  to  overflowing.  Among  these  admirers  was  a  Mr 
Wagginhorne  who  now  lived  at  Maidstone.  He  had  pocketed 
his  passion  but  not  his  admiration;  and  being  an  artist  in  the 
same  sense  that  my  father  was  an  author,  he  had  painted  my 
mother  and  me  and  a  pot  of  azaleas  in  oils.  How  well  I  remem- 
ber those  interminable  sittings,  with  the  old  gentleman  daubing 
along,  and  cracking  his  beloved  jokes  and  Kentish  cobbs  at  one 
and  the  same  time.  Whenever  he  came  to  see  us  this  portrait 
was  taken  out  of  a  cupboard  and  hung  up  in  substitution  for  an- 
other picture  in  the  dining-room.  What  became  of  it  when  Mr 
Wagginhorne  died  I  could  never  discover.  My  mother  would 
laugh  when  I  inquired,  and  archly  eye  my  father.  It  was  clear, 
at  any  rate,  that  author  was  not  jealous  of  artist! 

My  mother  was  gentle  with  me,  and  had  need  to  be;  and 
I  was  happier  in  her  company  than  one  might  think  possible 
in  a  world  of  such  fleetingness.  I  would  sit  beside  her  workbox 
and  she  would  softly  talk  to  me,  and  teach  me  my  lessons  and 
small  rhymes  to  say;  while  my  own  impulse  and  instinct  taught 
me  to  sing  and  dance.  What  gay  hours  we  shared.  Sewing 
was  at  first  difficult,  for  at  that  time  no  proportionate  needles 
could  be  procured  for  me,  and  I  hated  to  cobble  up  only  coarse 
work.  But  she  would  give  me  little  childish  jobs  to  do,  such  as 
arranging  her  silks,  or  sorting  her  beads,  and  would  rock  me  to 
sleep  with  her  finger  to  a  drone  so  gentle  that  it  might  have  been 
a  distant  bee's. 

25 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


Yet  shadows  there  were,  before  the  darkness  came.  Child  that 
I  was,  I  would  watch  gather  over  her  face  at  times  a  kind  of 
absentness,  as  if  she  were  dreaming  of  something  to  which  she 
could  give  no  name,  of  some  hope  or  wish  that  was  now  never  to 
be  fulfilled.  At  this  I  would  grow  anxious  and  silent,  doubting, 
perhaps,  that  I  had  displeased  her;  while,  to  judge  from  her  look, 
I  might  not  have  been  there  at  all. 

Or  again,  a  mischievousness  and  mockery  would  steal  into 
her  mood.  Then  she  would  treat  me  as  a  mere  trivial  plaything, 
talking  small  things  to  me,  as  if  our  alphabet  consisted  of  noth- 
ing but  "little  o" — a  letter  for  which  I  always  felt  a  sort  of  pity ; 
but  small  affection.  This  habit  saddened  my  young  days,  and 
sometimes  enraged  me,  more  than  I  can  say.  I  was  ahvays  of 
a  serious  cast  of  mind — even  a  little  priggish  perhaps ;  and 
experience  had  already  taught  me  that  I  could  share  my  mother's 
thoughts  and  feelings  more  easily  than  she  could  share  mine. 


26 


Chapter  Two 


WHEN  precisely  I  began  to  speculate  why  1  was  despatched 
into  this  world  so  miivite  and  different  I  cannot  say. 
Pretty  early,  I  Fancy,  though  few  opportunities  for  com- 
parison were  afforded  me,  and  for  some  time  1  supposed  that  all 
young  children  were  of  my  stature.  There  was  Adam  Waggett, 
it  is  tnu-,  the  bumpkin  son  of  a  village  friend  of  Mrs  Ballard's. 
But  he  was  some  years  older  than  1.  lie  would  he  invited  to  tea 
in  the  kitchen,  and  was  never  at  rest  unless  stuffing  himself  out 
with  bread-and-dripping  or  dough-cake — victuals  naturally  odious 
to  me;  or  pestering  me  with  his  coarse  fooling  and  curiosity.  1  le 
was  to  prove  useful  in  due  season;  hut  in  those  days  1  had  a  dis- 
taste for  him  almost  as  deep-rooted  as  that  for  "1  loppy,*'  the  vil- 
lage idiot — though   1   saw  poor  1  loppy  only  once. 

Whatever  the  reason  may  be,  except  in  extremely  desperate 
moments.  1  do  not  remember  much  regretting  that  I  was  not  of 
the  common  size.  Still,  the  realization  was  gradually  home  in 
on  me  that  I  was  a  disappointment  and  mischance  to  my  parents. 
Yet  I  never  dared  to  lei  fall  a  <|uestion  which  was  to  he  often  in 
my  young  thoughts:  "Tell  me,  mamma,  are  you  sorry  that  your 
little  d  i-  is  a  Midget?"     But  then,  does  any  one  ask  ques- 

tions like  that  until  they  cannot  he  answered? 

Still,  cross-examine  her  T  did  occasionally. 

"Where  did  I  come  from,  mamma:" 

"Why.  my  dear,  I  am  your  mother." 

"Just,"    1    replied,   "like    Pollie's  mother  is  her  mother?" 

She  cast  a  glance  at  me  from  eyes  that  appeared  to  he  very 
small,  unless  for  that  instant  it  was  mine  that  I  saw  reflected 
there. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  she  replied  at  length.  "We  come  and  we  go." 
She  seemed  tired  with  the  heat  ^\  the  day.  so  I  sate  quietly,  hold- 
ing her  finger,  until  she  wis  recovered. 

Only,  perhaps,  on  account  of  my  size  was  there  any  occasion 

27 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

for  me  to  be  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself.  Otherwise  I  was, 
if  anything,  a  rather  precocious  child.  I  could  walk  a  step  or 
two  at  eleven  months,  and  began  to  talk  before  the  Christmas 
following  the  first  anniversary  of  my  birthday,  August  30th.  I 
learned  my  letters  from  the  big  black  capitals  in  the  Book  of 
Genesis;  and  to  count  and  cipher  from  a  beautiful  little  Abacus 
strung  with  beads  of  silver  and  garnets.  The  usual  ailments 
came  my  way,  but  were  light  come,  light  go.  I  was  remarkably 
sinewy  and  muscular,  strong  in  the  chest,  and  never  suffered 
from  snuffling  colds  or  from  chilblains,  though  shoes  and  gloves 
have  always  been  a  difficulty. 

I  can  perfectly  recall  my  childish  figure  as  I  stood  with  endless 
satisfaction  surveying  my  reflection  in  a  looking-glass  on  the 
Christmas  morning  after  my  ninth  birthday.  My  frock  was  of 
a  fine  puffed  scarlet,  my  slippers  loose  at  heel,  to  match.  My 
hair,  demurely  parted  in  the  middle,  hung  straight  on  my  narrow 
shoulders  (though  I  had  already  learned  to  plait  it)  and  so  framed 
my  face;  the  eyebrows  faintly  arched  (eyebrows  darker  and 
crookeder  now)  ;  the  nose  in  proportion;  the  lips  rather  narrow, 
and  of  a  lively  red. 

My  features  wore  a  penetrating  expression  in  that  reflection 
because  my  keen  look  was  searching  them  pretty  close.  But  if 
it  was  a  sharp  look,  it  was  not,  I  think,  a  bold  or  defiant ;  and 
then  I  smiled,  as  if  to  say,  "So  this  is  to  be  my  companion,  then?" 

It  was  winter,  and  frost  was  on  the  window  that  day.  I  en- 
joyed the  crisp  air,  for  I  was  packed  warm  in  lamb's-wool  under- 
neath. There  I  stood,  my  father's  round  red  face  beaming  on  one 
side  of  the  table,  my  mother's  smiling  but  enigmatic,  scrutinizing 
my  reflection  on  the  other,  and  myself  tippeting  this  way  and 
that — a  veritable  miniature  of  Vanity. 

Who  should  be  ushered  at  this  moment  into  the  room,  where  we 
were  so  happy,  but  my  godmother,  Miss  Fenne,  come  to  bring  my 
father  and  mother  her  Christmas  greetings  and  me  a  little  cate- 
chism sewn  up  in  a  pink  silk  cover.  She  was  a  bent-up  old  lady 
and  a  rapid  talker,  with  a  voice  which,  though  small,  jangled  every 
nerve  in  my  body,  like  a  pencil  on  a  slate.  Being  my  godmother, 
she  took  great  liberties  in  counselling  my  parents  on  the  proper 
way  of  "managing"  me.  The  only  time,  indeed,  I  ever  heard  my 
father  utter  an  oath  was  when  Miss  Fenne  was  just  beyond  hear- 
ing. She  peered  across  at  me  on  this  Christmas  morning  like  a 
28 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bird  at  a  scorpion:  "Caroline,  Caroline,"  she  cried,  "for  shame! 
The  Shrimp!     You  will  turn  the  child's  head." 

Shrimp!  I  had  seen  the  loathsome,  doubled-up  creatures  (in 
their  boiled  state)  on  a  kitchen  plate.  My  blood  turned  to  vin- 
egar; and  in  rage  and  shame  I  fell  all  of  a  heap  on  the  table, 
hiding  from  her  sight  my  face  and  my  hands  as  best  I  could  under 
my  clothes,  and  wishing  that  I  might  vanish  away  from  the  world 
altogether. 

My  father's  voice  boomed  out  in  protest ;  my  mother  took  me 
into  her  arms  to  soothe  and  scold  me ;  but  long  after  the  ruffled  old 
lady  had  taken  her  departure  I  brooded  on  this  affront.  "Away, 
away!"  a  voice  seemed  to  cry  within;  and  I  listened  to  it  as  ii*  un- 
der a  spell.  All  that  day  I  nursed  my  wounded  vanity,  and  the 
same  evening,  after  candle  light,  I  found  myself  for  a  moment 
alone  in  the  kitchen.  Pollie  had  gone  to  the  wood-shed  to  fetch 
kindling,  leaving  the  door  into  the  garden  ajar.  The  night  air 
touched  my  cheek.  Half  beside  myself  with  desire  of  I  know  not 
what,  I  sprang  out  from  the  doorstep  into  an  inch  or  so  of  snow, 
and  picking  myself  up,  ran  off  into  the  darkness  under  the  huge 
sky. 

It  was  bitterly  cold.  Frost  had  crusted  the  virgin  surface  of 
the  snow.  My  light  footsteps  can  hardly  have  shattered  its  upper 
crystals.  I  ran  on  and  on  into  the  ghostly  world,  into  this  stiff, 
marvelous,  gloating  scene  of  frozen  vegetation  beneath  that 
immense  vacancy.  A  kind  of  stupor  must  have  spread  over  my 
young  mind.  It  seemed  I  was  transported  out  of  myself  under  the 
stars,  in  the  mute  presence  of  the  Watchman  of  Heaven.  I  stood 
there  lost  in  wonder  in  the  grey,  luminous  gloom. 

But  my  escapade  was  brief  and  humiliating.  The  shock  of  the 
cold,  the  excitement,  quickly  exhausted  me.  I  threw  myself 
down  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  trying  in  vain  to 
stifle  my  sobs.  What  was  my  longing?  Where  its  satisfaction? 
Soft  as  wool  a  drowsiness  stole  over  my  senses  that  might  swiftly 
have  wafted  me  off  on  the  last  voyage  of  discovery.  But  I 
had  been  missed.  A  few  minutes'  search,  and  Pollie  discovered 
me  lying  there  by  the  frozen  cabbage  stalks.  The  woeful  Maenad 
was  carried  back  into  the  kitchen  again — a  lint  bath,  a  hot  posset, 
and  a  few  anxious  and  thankful  tears. 

The  wonder  is,  that,  being  an  only  child,  and  a  sure  problem 
when  any  question  of  discipline  or  punishment  arose,  I  was  not 

29 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

utterly  spoiled.  One  person  at  least  came  very  near  to  doing  so, 
my  grandfather,  Monsieur  Pierre  de  Ronvel.  To  be  exact,  he 
was  my  step-grandfather,  for  my  mother's  charming  mother, 
with  her  ringlets  and  crinoline,  after  my  real  grandfather's  death, 
had  married  a  second  time.  He  crossed  the  English  Channel  to 
visit  my  parents  when  I  was  in  my  tenth  year — a  tall,  stiff,  jerky 
man,  with  a  sallow  face,  speckled  fur-like  hair  that  stood  in  a 
little  wall  round  his  forehead,  and  the  liveliest  black  eyes.  His 
manners  were  a  felicity  to  watch  even  at  my  age-  You  would 
have  supposed  he  had  come  courting  my  mother ;  and  he  took  a 
great  fancy  to  me.  He  was  extremely  fond  of  salad,  I  re- 
member :  and  I  very  proud  of  my  mustard  and  cress — which  I 
could  gather  for  him  myself  with  one  of  my  own  table-knives.  So 
copiously  he  talked,  with  such  a  medley  of  joys  and  zests  and 
surprises  on  his  face,  that  I  vowed  soon  to  be  mistress  of  my 
stepmother  tongue.  He  could  also  conjure  away  reels  and' 
thimbles,  even  spoons  and  forks,  with  a  skill  that  precluded  my 
becoming  a  materialist  for  ever  after.  I  zvorsliipped  my  grand- 
father— and  yet  without  a  vestige  of  fear. 

To  him,  indeed — though  I  think  he  was  himself  of  a  secular 
turn  of  mind — I  owe  the  story  of  my  birthday  saint,  St  Rosa 
of  Lima  in  Peru,  the  only  saint,  I  believe,  of  the  New  World. 
With  myself  pinnacled  on  his  angular  knee,  and  devouring  like 
a  sweetmeat  every  broken  English  word  as  it  slipped  from  his 
tongue,  he  told  me  howT  pious  an  infant  my  Saint  had  been  ;  how, 
when  her  mother,  to  beautify  her,  had  twined  flowers  in  her  hair, 
she  had  pinned  them  to  her  skull ;  how  she  had  rubbed  quicklime 
on  her  fair  cheeks  to  disenchant  her  lovers  ("ses  pretendants") , 
and  how  it  was  only  veritable  showers  of  roses  from  heaven  that 
had  at  last  persuaded  Pope  Clement  to  make  her  a  saint. 

"Perhaps,  bon  papa,"  said  I,  "I  shall  dig  and  sow  too  when  I  am 
grown  up,  like  St  Rosa,  to  support  my  mamma  and  papa  when 
they  are  very  old.  Do  you  think  I  shall  make  enough  money? 
Papa  has  a  very  good  appetite?"  He  stared  at  me,  as  if  in  con- 
sternation. 

"Dieu  vans  en  garde,  ma  p'tite,"  he  cried;  and  violently  blew 
his  nose. 

So  closely  T  took  St  Rosa's  story  to  heart  that,  one  day,  after 
bidding  my  beauty  a  wistful  farewell  in  the  glass,  T  rubbed  my 
cheek    too,    but    with    the    blue    flowers    of    the — brooklime.     It 

30 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

stained  them  a  little,  bul  soon  washed  off.     In  my  case  a  needless 
precaution;  my  pretendants  have  been  few. 

It  was  a  mournful  day  when  my  grandfather  returned  to  France 
never  to  be  seen  by  me  again.     Yet  he  was  to  remember  mc 

always  ;  and  at  last  when  I  myself  had  forgotten  even  my  faith  in 
1 1 i s  fidelity.     Nearly  all  my  personal  furnishings  and  belongings 

were  gifts  of  his  from  France,  and  many  of  them  of  his  own 
making.  There  was  my  four-post  bed,  for  instance;  with  a 
flowered  silk  canopy,  a  carved  tester  and  half  a  dozen  changes  of 
linen  and  valance.  There  were  chairs  to  match,  a  wardrobe, 
silk  mats  from  Persia,  a  cheval  glass,  and  clothes  and  finery  in 
abundance,  china  and  cutlery,  top-boots  and  sabots.  Even  a  :dlver- 
hooped  bath-tub  and  a  crystal  toilet  set,  and  scores  of  arti 
besides  for  use  or  ornament,  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  mention. 
My  grandfather  had  my  measurement-  to  a  nicety,  and  as  the  year- 
went  by  he  sagaciously  allowed  for  growth. 

I  learned  to  tell  the  time  from  an  eight-day  clock  which  played 
a  sacred  tune  at  matins  and  vespers;  and  later,  he  senl  me  a  watch, 
the  least  bit  too  large  for  me  to  be  quite  comfortable,  but  an 
exquisite  piece  of  workmanship.  As  my  birthdays  land  his) 
drew  near,  I  could  scarcely  sleep  for  thinking  what  fresh  en- 
trancing novelty  the  festive  morning  would  bring.  The  only 
one  of  his  gift- — by  no  means  the  least  ingenious — which  never, 
after  the  first  flush  of  excitement,  gave  me  much  pleasure,  was  a 
two-chambered  thatched  summer-house,  set  up  on  a  pole,  and 
reached  by  a  wide,  shallow  ladder.  The  roof  opened,  so  that  on 
very  hot  days  a  block  of  ice  could  he  laid  within,  the  water  from  its 
slow  melting  running  out  by  a  gutter.  But  I  loved  sunshine.  This 
was  a  plajything  that  ridiculously  amused  chance  visitors;  it 
attracted  flies;  I  felt  silly  tip  in  it:  and  gladly  resigned  it  to  the 
tits,  starlings,  and  sparrows  to  quarrel  over  as  they  pleased. 

My  really  useful  furniture — of  plain  old  Sheraton  design — 
was  set  out  in  my  bedroom.  In  one  half  of  the  room  slept  Pollie, 
a  placid  but,  before  her  marriage,  rather  slow-witted  creature 
about  six  years  my  senior.  The  other  half  was  mine  and  had  been 
made  proportionate  to  my  needs  by  a  cabinet-maker  from  London, 
My  father  had  had  a  low  stone  balcony  built  on  beyond  my 
window.  Ibis  was  fenced  with  fine  trellis  work  to  screen  it  from 
the  colder  winds.  With  its  few  extremely  dwarf  trees  set  along 
in  green  Nankin  tubs,  and  the  view  it  commanded,  1  could  enjoy 

31 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


this  eyrie  for  hours — never  wearied  of  it  in  my  youth,  nor  shall 
if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred. 

I  linger  over  these  early  recollections,  simply  because  they  are 
such  very  happy  things  to  possess.     And  now  for  out-of-doors. 

Either  because  my  mother  was  shy  of  me,  or  because  she  thought 
vulgar  attention  would  be  bad  for  me,  she  seldom  took  me  far 
abroad.  Now  and  then  Pollie  carried  me  down  to  the  village  to 
tea  with  her  mother,  and  once  or  twice  I  was  taken  to  church.  The 
last  occasion,  however,  narrowly  escaped  being  a  catastrophe,  and 
the  experiment  was  not  repeated.  Instead,  we  usually  held  a 
short  evening  service,  on  Sundays,  in  the  house,  when  my  father 
read  the  lessons,  "like  a  miner  prophet,"  as  I  wrote  and  told  Miss 
Fenne.  He  certainly  dug  away  at  the  texts  till  the  words  glittered 
for  me  like  lumps  of  coal.  On  week-days  more  people  were 
likely  to  be  about,  and  in  general  I  was  secluded.  A  mistake,  I 
think.  But  fortunately  our  high,  plain  house  stood  up  in  a  delight- 
ful garden,  sloping  this  way  and  that  towards  orchard  and  wood, 
with  a  fine-turfed  lawn,  few  "cultivated"  flowers,  and  ample 
drifts  of  shade.  If  Kent  is  the  garden  of  England,  then  this  was 
the  garden  of  Kent. 

I  was  forbidden  to  be  alone  in  it.  But  Pollie  would  some- 
times weary  of  her  charge  (in  which  1  encouraged  her)  and 
when  out  of  sight  of  the  windows  she  would  stray  off  to  gossip 
with  the  gardener  or  with  some  friend  from  the  village,  leaving 
me  to  myself.  To  judge  from  the  tales  which  I  have  read  or  have 
been  told  about  children,  I  must  have  been  old  for  my  age. 
But  perhaps  the  workings  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  girl  in 
her  teens  are  not  of  general  interest.  Let  me  be  brief.  A  stream 
of  water  ran  on  the  southern  side  all  the  length  of  the  garden, 
under  a  high,  rocky  bank  (its  boundary)  which  was  densely 
overhung  with  ash  and  willow,  and  hedges  of  brier  and  bramble 
looped  with  bindweed,  goose-grass,  and  traveller's  joy.  On 
the  nearer  bank  of  this  stream  which  had  been  left  to  its  wild, 
I  would  sit  among  the  mossy  rocks  and  stones  and  search  the 
green  tops  of  my  ambush  as  if  in  quest  of  Paradise. 

When  the  sun's  rays  beat  down  too  fiercely  on  my  head 
I  would  make  myself  an  umbrella  of  wild  angelica  or  water 
parsnip. 

Caring  little  for  playthings,  and  having  my  smallest  books 
32 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

with  me  chiefly  for  silent  company,  I  would  fall  into  a  day- 
dream in  a  world  that  in  my  solitude  became  my  own.  In  this 
fantastic  and  still  world  I  forgot  the  misadventure  of  my  birth, 
which  had  now  really  begun  to  burden  me,  forgot  pride,  vanity, 
and  chagrin  ;  and  was  at  peace.  There  I  had  many  proportionate 
friends,  few  enemies.  An  old  carrion  crow,  that  sulked  out  a 
black  existence  in  this  beauty,  now  and  then  alarmed  me  with 
his  attentions;  but  he  was  easily  scared  off.  The  lesser  and 
least  of  living  things  seemed  to  accept  me  as  one  of  themselves. 
Nor  (perhaps  because  I  never  killed  them)  had  I  any  silly 
distaste  for  the  caterpillars,  centipedes,  and  satiny  black  slu 
Mistress  Snail  would  stoop  out  at  me  like  a  foster-mother. 
Even  the  midges,  which  to  his  frenzy  would  swarm  round  my 
father's  head  like  swifts  round  a  steeple,  left  me  entirely  un- 
molested. Either  I  was  too  dry  a  prey,  or  they  misliked  the 
flavour  of  my  blood. 

My  eyes  dazzled  in  colours.  The  smallest  of  the  marvels 
of  flowers  and  flies  and  beetles  and  pebbles,  and  the  radiance 
that  washed  over  them,  would  1111  me  with  a  mute,  pent-up 
rapture  almost  unendurable.  Butterflies  would  settle  quietly 
on  the  hot  stones  beside  me  as  if  to  match  their  raiment  against 
mine.  If  I  proffered  my  hand,  with  quivering  wings  and  horns 
they  would  uncoil  their  delicate  tongues  and  quaff  from  it 
drops  of  dew  or  water.  A  solemn  grasshopper  would  occasionally 
straddle  across  my  palm,  and  with  patience  I  made  quite  an 
old  friend  of  a  harvest  mouse.  They  weigh  only  two  to  the  half- 
penny. This  sharp-nosed  furry  morsel  would  creep  swiftly 
along  to  share  my  crumbs  and  snuggle  itself  to  sleep  in  my  lap. 
By-and-by,  I  suppose,  it  took  to  itself  a  wife;  I  saw  it  no 
more.  Bees  would  rest  there,  the  panniers  of  their  thighs  laden 
with  pollen:  and  now  and  then  a  wasp,  his  jaws  full  of  wood  or 
meat.  When  sunbeetles  or  ants  drew  near,  they  would  seem  to 
pause  at  my  whisper,  as  if  hearkening.  As  if  in  their  remote 
silence  pondering  and  sharing  the  world  with  me.  All  childish 
fancy,  no  doubt:  for  T  proved  far  less  successful  with  the 
humans. 

Bui  bow.  it  may  be  asked,  seeing  that  there  must  have 
been  a  shrill  piping  of  birds  and  brawling  of  water  among  the 
stones,  how  could  Mademoiselle's  delicate  ear  endure  tJiat  racket? 
Perhaps  it  is  because  the  birds  being  loose  in  the  hollow  of  space . 

33 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

it  carried  away  into  its  vacancy  their  cries.  It  is,  too,  the  harsh, 
rather  than  the  shrill,  that  frets  me.  As  for  the  noise  of  the 
water,  it  was  so  full  and  limpid,  yet  made  up  of  such  infinitely 
entangled  chimings  and  drummings,  that  it  would  lull  me  into 
a  kind  of  trance,  until  to  a  strange  eye  I  must  have  appeared 
like  a  lifeless  waxen  mammet  on  my  stone. 

What  may  wholly  have  'been  another  childish  fancy  was 
that  apart  from  the  silvery  darting  flies  and  the  rainbow- 
coloured  motes  in  the  sunbeams,  fine  and  airy  invisible  shapes 
seemed  to  haunt  and  hover  around  me  when  all  was  still.  Most 
of  my  fellow  creatures  to  my  young  nose  had  an  odour  a  good 
deal  denser  than  the  fainter  scented  flowers,  and  I  can  fancy 
such  a  fog,  if  intensified,  would  be  distressing  to  beings  so 
bodiless  and  rare.  Whereas  the  air  I  disturbed  and  infected 
with  my  presence  can  have  been  of  but  shallow  volume. 

Fairies  I  never  saw — I  had  a  kind  of  fear  and  distaste  for 
them  even  in  books.  Nor  for  that  matter — perhaps  because 
the  stream  here  was  too  tumbling  and  opaque — a  kingfisher. 
But  whatever  other  company  may  have  been  mine,  I  had  the 
clouds  and  the  water  and  the  insects  and  the  stones — while 
pimpernel,  mousetail,  torment.il,  the  wild  strawberry,  the  feathery 
grasses  seemed  to  have  been  made  expressly  for  my  delight. 
Ego-centric  Midget  that  I  was  ! 


34 


Chapter  Three 


N(  >T  that  in  an  existence  so  passive  riddles  never  came  my 
way.  As  one  morning  I  brushed  past  a  bush  of  lads'  love 
(or  maidens'  ruin,  as  some  call  it  ),  its  fragrance  sweeping 
me  from  top  to  toe,  I  stumbled  on  the  carcass  of  a  young  mole. 
Curiosity  vanquished  the  first  gulp  of  horror.  I  folding  my  breath, 
with  a  stick  I  slowly  edged  it  up  in  the  dusl  and  surveyed  the  white 
heaving  nest  of  maggots  in  its  belly  with  a  peculiar  and  absorbed 
recognition.  "Ah.  ha!"  a  voice  cried  within  me.  "so  this  is  what 
is  in  wait ;  this  is  how  things  are" ;  and  I  stooped  with  lips 
drawn  back  over  my  teeth  to  examine  the  stinking  mystery 
more  closely.     That  was  a  lesson  I  have  never  unlearned. 

One  of  a  rather  different  kind  had  another  effect.  I  was 
sitting  in  the  garden  one  day  watching  in  the  distance  a  jay 
huffling  and  sidling  and  preening  its  feathers  on  a  bit  of  decrepit 
fencing.  Suddenly  there  fell  a  sharp  crack  of  sound.  In  a 
flash,  with  a  derisive  chattering,  the  jay  was  flown:  and  then 
I  saw  Adam  Waggett,  half  doubled  up,  stealing  along  towards 
the  place.  I  lay  in  wait  for  him.  With  catapult  dangling  in  one 
hand,  the  other  list  tight  shut,  he  came  along  like  a  thief.  Ami 
I  cried  hollowly  out  of  my  concealment,  "Adam,  what  have 
you  there?" 

Such  a  picture  of  foolish  shame  T  have  never  seen.  lie  was 
compelled  none  the  less  to  exhibit  his  spoil,  an  eye-shut, 
tWinkle-tailed,  needle-billed  Jenny  Wren  crumpled  up  in  his 
great,  dirty  paw.  Fury  burnt  up  in  me  like  a  fire.  What  I  said 
to  him  I  cannot  remember,  but  it  was  nothing  sweet:  and  it 
was  a  cowed  Adam  Waggetl  that  loafed  off  as  truculently  as  he 
could  towards  the  house,  his  catapult  and  victim  left  behind 
him.  But  that  was  his  lesson  rather  than  mine,  and  one  which 
he  never  forgot. 

When  in  my  serener  moods  Pollie's  voice  would  be  heard 
slyly  hallooing  for  me,  1  would  rouse  up  with  a  shock  to  realize 
again  the  little  cell  of  my  body  into  which  I  had  been  confined. 

35 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Then  she  and  I  would  eat  our  luncheon,  a  few  snippets  of  biscuit, 
a  cherry  or  two,  or  slice  of  apple  for  me,  and  for  her  a  hunch  of 
bread  and  bacon  about  half  my  size  in  length  and  thickness. 
I  would  turn  my  back  on  her,  for  I  could  not  endure  to  see  her 
gobble  her  meal,  having  an  abhorrence  of  cooked  flesh,  and  a 
dainty  stomach.  Still,  like  most  children  I  could  be  greedy, 
and  curious  of  unfamiliar  foods.  To  a  few  forbidden  black 
currants  which  I  reacjhed  up  and  plucked  from  their  rank- 
smelling  bush,  and  devoured,  skin  and  all,  I  owe  lesson  Num- 
ber 3.     This  one,  however,  had  to  be  repeated. 

Childhood  quickly  fleets  away.  Those  happy,  unhappy,  far- 
away days  seem  like  mere  glimpses  of  a  dragon-fly  shimmering 
and  darting  over  my  garden  stream,  though  at  the  actual  time 
they  more  closely  resembled,  perhaps,  a  continuous  dream  broken 
into  bits  of  vivid  awakening. 

As  I  grew  older,  my  skirts  grew  longer,  my  desire  for  inde- 
pendence sharper,  and  my  wits  more  inquiring.  On  my  seven- 
teenth birthday  I  put  up  my  hair,  and  was  confirmed  by  a 
bishop  whom  my  godmother  persuaded  to  officiate  in  the  house. 
It  was  a  solemn  occasion ;  but  my  mother  was  a  good  deal  con- 
cerned about  the  lunch,  and  I  wdth  the  ballooning  lawn  sleeves 
and  the  two  square  episcopal  finger-tips  disposed  upon  my  head. 
The  experience  cast  a  peaceful  light  into  my  mind  and  shook 
my  heart,  but  it  made  me  for  a  time  a  little  self-conscious  of  both 
my  virtue  and  my  sins.  I  began  to  brood  not  only  on  the  deplor- 
able state  of  my  own  soul,  but  also  on  Pollie's  and  Mrs  Ballard's, 
and  became  for  a  time  a  diminutive  Miss  Fenne.  I  suppose  inno- 
cence is  a  precarious  bliss.  On  the  other  hand,  if  one's  mind  is 
like  a  dead  mole's  belly,  it  is  wise,  I  think,  to  examine  it  closely 
but  not  too  often,  and  to  repeat  that  confirmation  for  one's  self 
every  morning  and  evening. 

As  a  young  child  I  had  been,  of  course,  as  naturally  religious 
as  a  savage  or  an  angel.  But  even  then,  I  think,  I  never  could 
quite  believe  that  Paradise  was  a  mere  Fenne-land. 

Once  I  remember  in  the  midst  of  my  multiplication  table  I  had 
broken  out  unannounced  with,  "Then  God  made  the  world, 
mamma  ?" 

"Yes,  my  dear." 

"And  all  things  in  the  forests  and  the  birds  in  the  sky  and — 
36 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

and  moles,  and  this?"  I  held  down  my  limp,  coral-coloured 
arithmetic. 

"Yes,"  said  she. 

I  wondered  a  while,  losing  myself,  as  if  in  wanderings  like 
Ariel's,  between  the  clouds.  "What,  mamma,  did  lie  make  them 
of?"  my  voice  interrupted  me. 

"He  made  them,"  said  my  mother  steadily,  "of  His  Power  and 
Love." 

Rapidly  I  slid  back  into  her  company.  "And  can  we,  can  I, 
make  things  of  my  power  and  love?" 

"I  suppose,  my  dear,"  replied  my  mother  reflectively  and  perhaps 
thinking  of  my  father  in  his  study,  over  his  Paper  and  Hops,  "it 
is  only  that  in  life  that  is  really  worth  doing." 

"Then,"  I  said  sagely,  "I  suspects  that's  how  Mullings  does  the 
garden,  mamma." 

Long  befdre  Miss  Fenne''s  and  the  bishop's  visitation  my 
mother  had  set  about  teaching  me  in  earnest.  A  governess — 
a  Miss  Perry — was  our  first  experiment.  Alas,  apart  from  her 
tendency  to  quinsy,  it  was  I  who  was  found  wanting.  She  com- 
plained of  the  strain  on  her  nerves.  My  mother  feared  that 
quinsy  was  catching ;  and  Miss  Perry  had  no  successor.  Reading 
was  always  a  difficulty.  My  father  bought  me  as  tiny  old  books 
as  could  be  found,  including  a  dwarf  Bible,  a  midget  Pickering 
Shakespeare,  and  a  grammar  (with  a  menagerie  for  frontispiece) 
from  which  I  learned  that  "irony  is  a  figure  which  intends  the 
reverse  of  what  it  speaks,  and  under  the  masque  of  praise,  con- 
ceals the  most  biting  satyr" ;  and  the  following  stanza : — 

Hail  Energeia!  hail  my  native  tongue 
Concisely  full,  and  musically  strong; 
Thou  with  the  pencil  hold'st  a  glorious  strife. 
And  paint'st  the  passions  equal  to  the  life. 

My  mother  agreed  that  strung  would  be  preferable  to  "strong" 
and  explained  that  "the  passions"  did  not  signify  merely  ill- 
temper;  while,  if  I  pecked  over-nicely  at  my  food,  my  father 
would  cry  "Hail  Energeia!"  a  challenge  which  rarely  failed  to 
persuade  me  to  set  to. 

My  grandfather  sent  me  other  pygmy  books  from  Paris,  in- 
cluding a   minute   masterpiece   of    calligraphy,    Unc   Antlwlogtc 

37 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

dc  Chansons  pour  une  Minuscule  Aimantc  ct  Bien-aimee  par  P. 
de  R.  These  I  could  easily  carry  about  with  me.  I  soon  learned 
to  accustom  my  arms  and  shoulders  to  bulkier  and  more  cumbrous 
volumes.  My  usual  method  with  a  common-sized  book  was  to 
prop  it  up  towards  the  middle  of  the  table  and  then  to  seat 
myself  at  the  edge.  The  page  finished,  I  would  walk  across  and 
turn  over  a  fresh  leaf.  Thus  in  my  solitude  I  studied  my  lessons 
and  read  again  and  again  my  nursery  favourites,  some  of  them, 
I  gather,  now  undeservedly  out  of  fashion. 

Perhaps  even  better  than  fiction  or  folk-tales,  I  liked  books  of 
knowledge. 

There  were  two  of  these  in  particular,  The  Observing  Eye;  or 
Lessons  to  Children  on  the  Three  Loxvest  Divisions  of  Animal 
Life — The  Radiated,  Articulated,  arid  Molluscous,  and  The  Child- 
hood of  the  World.  Even  at  nine  I  remarked  how  nimbly  the 
anonymous  author  of  the  former  could  skip  from  St  Paul  to  the 
lobster;  and  I  never  wearied  of  brooding  on  Mr  Clodd's  frontis- 
piece. This  depicts  a  large-headed  and  seemingly  one-legged  little 
girl  in  a  flounced  frock  lying  asleep  under  a  wall  on  which  ivy  is 
sprawling.  For  pillow  for  herself  and  her  staring  doll  there  lies 
on  the  ground  a  full-sized  human  skull,  and  in  the  middle  distance 
are  seen  the  monoliths  of  Stonehenge.  Beyond  these  gigantic 
stones,  and  behind  the  far  mountains,  rises  with  spiky  rays  an 
enormous  Sun. 

/  was  that  child ;  and  mine  her  sun  that  burned  in  heaven,  and 
he  a  more  obedient  luminary  than  any  lamp  of  man's.  I  would 
wonder  what  she  would  do  when  she  awoke  from  sleep.  The 
skull,  in  particular,  both  terrified  and  entranced  me — the  secret 
of  all  history  seemed  to  lie  hidden  in  the  shadows  beneath  its  dome. 
Indeed  I  needed  no  reminder  from  Mr  Clodd  that  "Children  (and 
some  grown-up  people  too)  are  apt  to  think  that  things  are  wonder- 
ful only  when  they  are  big,  which  is  not  true." 

I  knew  already,  out  of  nowhere,  that  "the  bee's  waxen  cell  is 
more  curious  than  the  chimpanzee's  rough  hut"  (though  I  should 
have  dearly  liked  to  see  the  latter)  ;  and  that  "an  ant  is  more 
wonderful  than  the  huge  and  dull  rhinoceros."  Such  is  childish- 
ness, however:  1  pitied  the  poor  rhinoceros  his  "dull."  Over 
such  small  things  as  a  nut,  a  shell,  a  drop  of  rain-water  in  a  butter- 
cup, a  frond  of  frost  (for  there'  were  cold  winters  at  Lyndsey  in 
those  days),  I  would  pore  and  pore,  imbibing  the  lesson  that  the 
38 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

eye  alone  if  used  in  patience  will  tell  its  owner  far  more  about 
an  object  than  it  ran  merely  si 

Among  my  few  framed  pictures  1  cannot  resisl  mentioning 
one  by  a  painter  of  the  name  of  Bosch.  Below  the  middle  of  it 
kneeled  naked  Adam  and  Eve  with  exquisite  crimped  hair  on  their 
shoulders;  and  between  them  stood  God.  All  above  and  beneath 
them,  roamed  the  animals,  birds,  in  ects,  and  infinitesimals  of 
Eden,  including  a  long-tailed  monkey  on  an  elephant,  a  jerboa, 
a  dancing  crocodile,  and  who  bul  our  cal  Miaou,  carrying  off  a 
mouse!  An  astonishing,  inexhaustible  piece  of  thoughtfulne 
I  loved  Mynheer  Bosch. 

Shameful  dunce  Miss  M.  may  remain,  but  she  did  in  her  child- 
hood supremely  enjoy  any  simple  hook-  about  the  things  of 
creation  greal  or  small.  But  I  preferred  my  own  notions  of  some 
of  them.  When  my  father  of  a  dark,  clear  nighl  would  perch 
me  Up  at  a  window  to  see  the  stars — Charles's  Wain  and  the  Chair; 
!  told  me  that  they  were  huge  boiling  suns,  roaring  their  way 
through  the  vasl  pi's  n\  space,  T  would  shake  my  head  to  myself. 
I  was  grateful  for  the  science,  hut  preferred  to  keep  them  just 
''stars.''  And  though  T  loved  to  lave  my  hands  in  a  trickle  of 
light  that  had  been  numberless  years  on  its  journey  to  this  earth, 
that  of  a  candle  also  filled  me  with  admiration,  and  T  was  un- 
nedlv  grieved  that  the  bleak  moon  was  naught  but  a  sheer 
hulk,  sans  even  air  or  ice  or  rain  or  snow. 

How  much  pleasanter  it  would  be  to  think  that  her  shine  was 
the  reflection  of  our  cherry  orchards,  and  that  her  shadows  were 
just  Kentish  hay-ricks,  barns,  and  oast-houses.  Tt  was.  too. 
perhaps  rather  tactless  of  my  father  to  beguile  me  with  full-grown 
authors'  accounts  of  the  Lives  of  the  Little.  Accomplished  writers 
they  may  he.  but — well,  never  mind.  As  for  the  Lives  of  the 
Great,  I  could  easily  adjust  Monsieur  Hon  Papa's  spyglass  and  re- 
duce them  to  scale. 

My  father  taught  me  also  to  swim  in  his  round  hath  :  and  on 
a  visit  to  Canterbury  purchased  for  me  the  nimblest  little  dun 
Shetland  pony,  whom  we  called  Mopsa.  1  learned  to  become  a 
fearless  rider.  But  hardy  though  her  race  may  be,  perhaps  I 
was  too  light  a  burden  to  satisfy  Mopsa's  spirit.  Tn  a  passing  fit 
of  temper  she  broke  a  leg.  Though  T  had  stopped  my  cars  for 
an  hour  before  the  Vet  came,  T  heard  the  shot. 

39 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

My  mother's  lessons  were  never  very  burdensome.  She  taught 
me  little,  but  she  taught  it  well — even  a  morsel  of  Latin.  I 
never  wearied  of  the  sweet  oboe-like  nasal  sound  of  her  French 
poems,  and  she  instilled  in  me  such  a  delight  in  words  that  to 
this  day  I  firmly  believe  that  things  are  at  least  twice  the  better 
and  richer  for  being  called  by  them.  Apart  from  a  kind  of 
passionate  impatience  over  what  was  alien  to  me — arithmetic, 
for  instance,  and  "analysis" — and  occasional  fits  of  the  sulks, 
which  she  allowed  to  deposit  their  own  sediment  at  leisure,  I 
was  a  willing,  and,  at  times,  even  a  greedy  scholar.  Apparently 
from  infancy  I  was  of  a  firm  resolve  to  match  my  wits  with  those 
of  the  common-sized  and  to  be  "grown-up"  some  day. 

So  much  for  my  education,  a  thing  which  it  seems  to  me  is 
likely  to  continue — and  specially  in  respect  of  human  nature — 
as  long  as  I  keep  alive.  With  so  little  childish  company,  without 
rivalry,  I  was  inclined  to  swell  myself  out  with  conceit  and 
complacency.  "It's  easy  holding  down  the  latchet  when  nobody 
pulls  the  string."  But  whatever  size  we  may  be,  in  soul  or  body, 
I  have  found  that  the  world  wields  a  sharp  pin,  and  is  pitiless  to 
bubbles. 

Though  inclined  to  be  dreamy  and  idle  when  alone,  I  was,  of 
course,  my  own  teacher  too.  My  senses  were  seven  in  number, 
however  few  my  wits.  In  particular  I  loved  to  observe  the 
clustering  and  gathering  of  plants,  like  families,  each  of  a  shape, 
size,  and  hue,  each  in  their  kind  and  season,  though  tall  and  lowly 
were  intermingled.  Now  and  then  I  would  come  on  some  small 
plant  self-sown,  shining  and  flourishing,  free  and  clear,  and  even 
the  lovelier  for  being  alone  in  its  kind  amid  its  greater  neigh- 
bours. I  prized  these  discoveries,  and  if  any  one  of  them  was 
dwarfed  a  little  by  its  surroundings  I  would  cosset  it  up  and 
help  it  against  them.  How  strange,  thought  I,  if  men  so  regarded 
each  other's  intelligence.  If  from  pitying  the  dull-witted  the 
sharp-witted  slid  to  mere  toleration,  and  from  toleration  to 
despising  and  loathing.  What  a  contest  would  presently  begin 
between  the  strong-bodied  stupid  and  the  feeble-bodied  clever, 
and  how  soon  there  would  be  no  strong-bodied  stupid  left  in 
the  world!  They  would  dwindle  away  and  disappear  into 
Time  like  the  mammoth  and  the  woolly  bear.  And  then  I  began 
to  be  sorry  for  the  woolly  bear  and  to  wish  I  could  go  and  have 
a  look  at  him.  Perhaps  this  is  putting  my  old  head  on  those 
40 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

young  shoulders,  but  when  I  strive  to  re-enter  the  thoughts  of 
those  remote  days,  how  like  they  seem  to  the  noisy  wasting  stream 
beside  which  they  flowed  on,  and  of  whose  source  and  des- 
tination I  was  unaware. 

All  this  egotism  recalls  a  remark  that  Mrs  Ballard  once 
made  apropos  of  some  little  smart  repartee  from  Miss  M.  as  she 
sat  beside  her  pasteboard  and  slapped  away  at  a  lump  of  dough, 
"Well  /  know  a  young  lady  who's  been  talking  to  the  young 
man  that  rubbed  his  face  with  a  brass  candlestick.'' 


41 


Chapter  Four 


IN  the  midst  of  my  eighteenth  year  fortune  began  to  darken. 
My  mother  had  told  me  little  of  the  world,  its  chances  and 
changes,  cares  and  troubles.  What  I  had  learned  of  these 
came  chiefly  from  books  and  my  own  speculations.  We  had  few 
visitors  and  from  all  but  the  most  familiar  I  was  quickly  packed 
away.  My  mother  was  sensitive  of  me,  for  both  our  sakes.  But 
I  think  in  this  she  was  mistaken,  for  when  my  time  came,  Life 
found  me  raw,  and  it  rubbed  in  the  salt  rather  vigorously. 

My  father  had  other  views.  He  argued  for  facing  the  facts, 
though  perhaps  those  relating  to  fruit  and  paper  are  not  very 
intimidating.  But  he  seldom  made  his  way  against  my  mother, 
except  in  matters  that  concerned  his  own  comfort.  He  loved 
me  fondly  but  throughout  my  childhood  seems  to  have  regarded 
me  as  a  kind  of  animated  marionette.  When  he  came  out  from 
his  Mills  and  Pockets  it  amused  him  to  find  me  nibbling  a  rasp- 
berry beside  his  plate.  He'd  rub  his  round  stubbly  head,  and 
say,  "Well,  mamma,  and  how's  Trot  done  this  morning?"  or 
he  would  stoop  and  draw  ever  so  needfully  his  left  little  finger 
down  my  nose  to  its  uttermost  tip,  and  whisper :  "And  so  to 
Land's  End,  my  love."  Now  and  then  I  would  find  his  eyes 
fixed  on  me  as  if  in  stupefaction  that  I  was  actually  his  daughter. 

But  now  that  I  was  getting  to  be  a  young  woman  and  had 
put  up  my  hair,  and  the  future  frowned  near,  this  domestic 
problem  began  seriously  to  concern  him.  My  mother  paled  at 
the  very  mention  of  it.  I  remember  I  had  climbed  up  on  to 
his  writing  desk  one  morning,  in  search  of  a  pair  of  high  boots 
which  I  had  taken  off  in  his  study  the  evening  before.  We  had 
been  fishing  for  sticklebacks.  Concealed  from  view,  while  the 
wind  whined  at  the  window,  T  heard  a  quarrel  between  my 
father  and  mother  about  me  which  I  will  never  repeat  to  mortal 
ear.  It  darkened  my  mind  for  days,  and  if  .  .  .  but  better  not. 
42 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

At  this  time  anxiety  about  money  matters  must  have  begun 
its  gnawing  in  my  poor  father's  brains.  And  I  know  what 
that  means.  He  had  recommended  to  others  and  speculated 
himself  in  some  experiment  in  the  cultivation  of  the  trees  from 
which  the  Chinese  first  made  paper,  and  had  not  only  been 
grossly  cheated,  but  laughed  at  in  the  press.  The  Kentish 
Courier— I  see  his  ears  burning  now — had  referred  to  him  as 
"the  ingenious  Mr  Tapa" ;  and  my  mother's  commiseration  had 
hardly  solaced  him:  "But,  my  dear,  you  couldn't  have  gone  to 
Canton  by  yourself.  We  must  just  draw  in  our  horns  a  little." 
The  ingenious  Mr  Tapa  patted  the  hand  on  his  shoulder,  but 
his  ears  burned  on. 

"Besides,"  my  mother  added,  with  a  long,  sighing  breath,  as  she 
seated  herself  again,  "there  are  the  books."  He  plucked  his 
spectacles  off,  and  gazed  vaguely  in  her  direction:  "Oh,  yes,  yes, 
there  are  the  books." 

Nor  was  he  long  daunted  by  this  attack.  He  fell  in  love  with 
some  notion  of  so  pickling  hop-poles  that  they  would  Inst  for 
ever.  Hut  the  press  was  no  kinder  to  his  poles  than  to  his 
mulberries. 

And  then  befell  the  blackest  misfortune  of  my  life.  I  had 
been  ill ;  and  for  a  few  days  had  been  sleeping  in  one  of  the 
spare  bedrooms  in  a  cot  beside  my  mother,  so  that  she  should  be 
near  me  if  I  needed  her.  This  particular  evening,  however, 
I  had  gone  back  to  my  own  room.  We  cannot  change  the  past, 
or  foresee  the  future.  But  if  only  Pollie  had  not  been  a  heavy 
sleeper;  if  only  I  had  escaped  that  trivial  ailment — how  tangled 
is  life's  skein!  It  was  the  May  after  my  eighteenth  birthday 
and  full  moonlight. 

Troubled  in  mind  by  my  illness  and  other  worries  a,-nd 
mortifications,  my  mother,  not  fully  aroused  perhaps,  got  up  in 
the  small  hours  and  mounted  the  stone  staircase  in  order  to 
look  in  on  me.  I  was  awake,  and  heard  the  rustling  of  her 
nightdress  and  the  faint  touch  of  her  slippered  feet  ascending 
from  stone  to  stone.  I  guessed  her  errand,  and  in  my  folly 
thought  T  would  pretend  to  be  asleep  and  give  her  a  "surprise." 
I  drew  my  curtains  and  lay  motionless  on  my  back  as  if  T  were 
dead.     With  eyes  closed,  listening,  I  smilingly  waited. 

Then  suddenly  I  heard  a  muffled,  gasping  cry :  and  all   was 

43 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

utterly,  icily  still.     I  flung  aside  the  silk  curtains  and  leapt  out 
of  bed. 

The  moonlight  was  streaming  in  a  lean  ray  across  the  floor 
of  my  room.  I  ran  down  this  luminous  pathway  into  the  dusk 
at  the  open  door.  At  the  stair-head  beyond,  still  and  silent,  I 
saw  my  poor  dear.  On  through  the  cold  dark  air  I  ran,  and  stood 
in  her  loosened  hair  beside  her  head.  It  lay  unstirring,  her  cheek 
colourless,  her  hand  stretched  out,  palm  upward,  on  the  stone. 
I  called  into  her  ear,  first  gently  and  pleadingly,  then  loud  and 
shrill.  I  ran  and  chafed  her  fingers,  then  back  again,  and  stooped, 
listening  with  my  cheek  to  her  lips.  She  exhaled  a  trembling 
sigh.  I  called  and  called ;  but  my  shrillness  was  utterly  swallowed 
up  in  the  vast  night-hung  house.  Then  softly  in  the  silence 
her  lids  unsealed  and  her  eyes,  as  if  wonderful  with  a  remote 
dream,  looked  up  into  my  face.  "My  dear,"  she  whispered,  wake- 
fulness gathering  faintly  into  her  gaze,  "my  dear,  is  it  you?" 
There  was  an  accent  in  her  voice  that  I  had  never  heard  before. 
Perhaps  her  tranceful  eyes  had  magnified  me.  Then  once  more 
the  lids  closed  down  and  I  was  alone.  I  fell  on  my  knees  beside 
her  and  crouched,  praying  into  her  heedless  ear. 

It  was  my  first  acquaintance  with  calamity,  and  physically 
powerless  to  aid  her,  I  could  think  of  nothing  for  a  moment 
but  to  persuade  her  to  speak  to  me  again.  Then  my  senses 
returned  to  me.  To  descend  that  flight  of  stairs — down  which 
hitherto  I  had  always  been  carried — would  waste  more  precious 
time  than  I  could  spare.  There  seemed  to  be  but  one  alternative 
— to  waken  Pollie.  I  ran  back  into  my  bedroom  and  tugged 
violently  at  the  slack  of  her  bedclothes.  A  mouse  might  as 
well  have  striven  to  ring  Great  Paul.  She  breathed  on  with 
open  mouth,  flat  on  her  back,  like  a  log.  Then  a  thought  came 
to  me. 

There  was  a  brass-bound  box  under  my  bed,  a  full  fifteen 
inches  long,  though  shallow,  in  which  my  grandfather  had  lately 
sent  me  some  gowns  and  finery  from  Paris.  With  some  little 
difficulty  I  lugged  and  pushed  this  all  across  the  room,  and  out 
on  to  the  staircase.  My  strength  seemed  to  be  superhuman. 
One  moment  I  flew  to  my  mother,  but  now  she  lay  in  a  pro- 
found sleep  indeed,  her  cheek  like  marble.  With  a  last  effort 
I  edged  my  box  on  its  side  between  the  balusters,  and  at  some 
44 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

risk  of  falling  after  it,  shoved  it  over  into  the  moon-silvered 
dusk  below.  The  house  echoed  with  its  resounding  brazen  clatter 
as  it  pitched  from  stair  to  stair.  Then  quiet.  Clutching  with 
either  hand  the  baluster  I  leaned  over,  listening.  Then  a  voice 
cried  sleepily:  "Hah!"  then  a  call,  "Caroline!"  and  a  moment 
afterwards  1  discerned  my  father  ascending  the  staircase.  .  .  . 

For  weeks  I  lay  desperately  ill.  The  chill,  the  anguish,  and 
horror  of  that  night  had  come  upon  a  frame  already  weakened. 
Life  was  nothing  but  an  evil  dream,  a  world  of  terrifying 
shadows  and  phantoms.  But  our  old  friend  Dr  Grose  was 
familiar  with  my  constitution,  and  at  last  I  began  to  mend.  Pollie, 
stricken  with  remorse,  nursed  me  night  and  day,  giving  my  small 
bed  every  hour  she  could  spare  in  a  house  stricken  and  disordered. 
I  was  never  told  in  so  many  words  that  my  mother  was  dead. 
In  my  extreme  weakness  I  learned  it  of  the  air  around  me,  of 
every  secret  sound  and  movement  in  the  house. 

Morning  and  evening  appeared  my  father's  great  face  in  the 
doorway,  his  eyebrows  lifted  high  above  his  spectacles.  To  see 
his  misery  I  almost  wished  that  I  might  die  to  spare  him  more. 
When  Dr  Grose  gave  him  permission,  he  sat  down  beside  my 
bed  and  stooping  low,  told  me  that  my  mother  had  remembered 
our  last  speech  together  on  the  staircase,  and  he  gave  me  her 
last  message.  A  thousand  and  one  remembrances  of  her  patience 
and  impulsiveness,  of  our  long  hours  of  solitude  together,  of 
her  fits  of  new  life  as  if  she  were  a  tree  blossoming  in  the  Spring, 
of  her  voice,  her  dignified  silence  with  Miss  Fenne,  her  sallies 
with  my  grandfather,  her  absent  musings — these  all  return  to  me. 

Alas,  that  it  was  never  in  my  power,  except  perhaps  at  that 
last  moment,  to  be  to  her  a  true  comfort  and  companion,  any- 
thing much  better,  in  fact,  than  a  familiar  and  tragic  playmate. 
Worse  beyond  words ;  how  little  I  had  done  for  her  that  I  might 
have  done ! 

But  regret  must  not  lead  me  into  extremes.  That  is  not  the 
whole  truth.  There  were  occasions,  I  think,  when  she  almost 
forgot  my  disabilities,  when  we  were  just  two  quiet,  equal  spirits 
in  the  world  and  conversed  together  gravely  and  simply,  not  as 
children,  but  as  fellow-women.  It  is  these  T  treasure  dearest, 
while  thanking  her  for  all.  Why,  in  the  whirligig  of  time,  if 
my    authorities    are    trustworthy,    and  my    life    had    fallen    out 

45 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

differently,  the  problem  might  now  have  been  reversed !  I 
myself  might  have  had  natural-sized  children  and  they  a  pygmy 
mother.     The   strangeness   of   the   world. 

Out  of  the  listlessness  of  convalescence  my  interests  began 
to  renew  themselves.  Across  the  gulf  that  separated  us  I  could 
still  commune  with  my  mother's  quiet  spirit.  Her  peace  and 
the  peace  of  her  forgiveness  began  to  descend  on  me;  and  her 
grave  in  my  imagination  has  now  no  more  sorrow  than  the 
anticipation  of  my  own.  From  my  windowsill  loggia  I  could 
command  a  full  "Hundred"  of  Kent.  Up  there  on  the  harrowed 
hill-top  it  was  said  that  on  fine  days  a  keen  eye  could  descry 
the  sea  to  north  and  south ;  though  Dr  Grose  dismissed  it  as 
a  piece  of  local  presumption.  Now  that  my  mother  was  gone 
the  clouds  were  stranger,  the  birds  more  sweetly  melancholy, 
the  flowers  more  fleeting.  Something  of  youth  had  passed 
away  to  return  no  more. 

Half  my  thoughts  were  wasted  in  futile  resentment  at  my 
incapacities.  Yet  it  was  a  helplessness  that  in  part  was  forced 
on  me  from  without.  Still  less  now  could  my  father  take  me 
seriously.  We  shared  our  silent  meals  together.  He  would  sit 
moping,  pushing  his  hand  over  his  whitening  hair,  or  staring  over 
his  spectacles  out  of  the  window  to  the  low  whistling  of  some 
endless,  monotonous  tune  that  would  haunt  him  for  days  to- 
gether and  fret  me  to  distraction.  Now  and  again  he  would 
favour  me  with  a  serious  speech,  and  then,  with  a  glance,  perhaps 
hurry  away  to  his  study  before  I  could  answer.  To  his  half- 
completed  dissertations  on  Hop,  Cherry,  and  Paper,  I  learned 
he  had  added  another,  oh  the  Oyster.  Many  of  his  letters  were 
now  postmarked  Whitstable.  He  even  advertised  in  his  old  enemy, 
the  Courier,  for  information :  and  would  break  out  into  furious 
abuse  at  the  stupidity  of  his  correspondents.  Meanwhile  his 
appetite  increased ;  he  would  nod  in  his  chair ;  his  clothes  grew 
shabby ;  his  appearance  neglected.  Poor  dear,  he  missed  my 
mother. 

P>ut  I  made  a  struggle  to  take  her  place.  Every  morning  Pollie 
would  carry  me  off  to  the  kitchen  for  a  discussion  with  Mrs 
Ballard  over  the  household  affairs  of  the  day.  Willi  her  fat, 
floury  hand,  she  would  hide  her  mouth  and  gravely  nod  her  head 
at  my  instructions.  P>ut  I  knew  she  was  concealing  her  amuse- 
ment. "Oh,  these  men !"  she  once  exclained  at  some  new  caprice 
46 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  "the  master's,"  "they  are  never  happy  unless  they  can  be  where 
they  bain't."     With  my  own  hand  I  printed  out  for  her  a  list  of 

my  father's  favourite  dishes.  I  left  off  my  black  and  wore 
bright  colours  again,  so  that  he  might  not  be  constantly  reminded 
of  the  past.  But  when  after  lung  debate  I  took  courage  one 
day  to  propose  myself  as  his  housekeeper — I  shall  never  forget 
the  facial  expression  which  he  quickly  rubbed  off  with  his  hand. 

He  fetched  out  of  his  trousers  pocket  a  great  bunch  of  keys, 
and  jangled  them  almost  ferociously  in  the  air  at  me  for  a  full 
minute  together  with  tears  of  amusement  in  his  eyes.  Then  he 
tossed  down  the  last  gulp  or  two  of  his  port  and  went  off.  A 
moment  after  he  must  have  realized  how  cruel  a  blow  he  had 
dealt  my  vanity  and  my  love.  He  returned,  seated  himself  heavily 
in  his  chair,  and  looked  at  me.  Then  stretching  out  his  hand 
he  dropped  his  face  on  to  his  arm.  A  horrible  quietness  spread 
over  the  room.  For  the  first  time  I  looked  with  a  kind  of  terror 
at  the  hairy  fingers  and  whitening  head,  and  could  not  stir. 

How  oddly  chance  repeats  itself.  The  door  opened  and  once 
more,  unannounced,  Miss  Fenne  appeared  in  our  midst.  My 
father  hastily  rose  to  greet  her,  pretending  that  nothing  was 
amiss.  But  when  she  held  out  her  clawlike  hand  to  me  to  be 
kissed,  I  merely  stared  at  her.  She  screwed  up  her  countenance 
into  a  smile:  mumbled  that  I  was  looking  pale  and  peaked  again; 
and,  with  difficulty  keeping  her  eyes  from  mine,  explained  that 
she  had  come  for  a  business  talk  with  my  father. 

A  few  days  afterwards  I  was  standing  up  at  the  window  of 
my  mother's  little  sewing- room — always  a  favourite  refuge  of 
mine,  for  there  the  afternoon  sun  and  the  colours  of  evening 
used  to  beat  into  the  corner.  And  I  saw  a  small-sized  woman 
with  a  large  black  bonnet  come  waddling  up  the  drive.  She  was 
followed  by  a  boy  wheeling  a  square  box  on  a  two-wheeled 
trolley.  It  was  Mrs  Sheppey  come  to  be  housekeeper  to  the 
widower  and  his  daughter. 

Mrs  Sheppey  proved  to  be  a  harassed  and  muddling  woman, 
and  she  came  to  a  harassed  home.  My  father's  affairs  had  gone 
from  bad  to  worse.  He  was  gloomy  and  morose.  A  hunted 
look  sometimes  gleamed  in  his  eyes,  and  the  spectacled  nose 
seemed  to  grow  the  smaller  the  more  solemn  its  surroundings 
were.  He  spent  most  of  the  day  in  his  dressing-gown  now, 
had  quarrelled  with  Dr  Grose,  and  dismissed  Mrs  Ballard.     The 

47 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

rooms  were  dirty  and  neglected.  Pollie  would  maunder  about 
with  a  broom,  or  stand  idly  staring  out  of  the  window.  She 
was  in  love.  At  least,  so  I  realize  now.  At  the  time  I  thought 
she  was  merely  lumpish  and  stupid. 

Only  once  in  my  recollection  did  Mrs  Sheppey  pay  my  own 
quarters  a  visit.  I  was  kneeling  on  my  balcony  and  out  of  sight, 
and  could  watch  her  unseen.  She  stood  there — tub-shaped,  a 
knob  of  dingy  hair  sticking  out  from  her  head,  her  skirts  sus- 
pended round  her  boots — passively  examining  my  bed,  my  ward- 
robe, and  my  other  belongings.  Her  scrutiny  over,  she  threw 
up  her  hands  and  the  whites  of  her  eyes  as  if  in  expostulation 
to  heaven,  turned  about  in  her  cloth  boots,  and  waddled  out 
again.  Pollie  told  me,  poor  thing,  that  her  children  had  been 
thorns  in  her  side.  I  brooded  over  this.  Had  I  not  myself, 
however  involuntarily,  been  a  thorn  in  my  mother's  side?  1 
despised  and  yet  pitied  Mrs  Sheppey. 

She  was,  if  anything,  frightened  of  me,  and  of  my  tongue, 
and  would  address  me  as  ''little  lady"  in  a  cringing,  pursed-up 
fashion.  But  I  am  thankful  to  say  she  never  attempted  to  touch 
me  or  to  lift  me  from  the  floor.  Her  memory  is  inextricably 
bound  up  with  a  brown,  round  pudding  with  a  slimy  treacle 
sauce  which  she  used  to  send  to  table  every  Tuesday,  Thurs- 
day, and  Saturday.  My  father  would  look  at  it  with  his  nose 
rather  than  with  his  eyes  ;  and  after  perhaps  its  fiftieth  appearance, 
he  summoned  Mrs  Sheppey  with  a  violent  tug  at  the  bell.  She 
thrust  her  head  in  at  the  door.  "Take  it  away,"  he  said,  "take  it 
away.  Eat  it.  Devour  it.  Hide  it  from  God's  sight,  good 
woman.     Don't  gibber.     Take  it  away !" 

His  tone  frightened  me  out  of  my  wits  and  Mrs  Sheppey  out 
of  the  house.  Then  came  the  end.  At  the  beginning  of  August 
in  my  twentieth  year,  my  father,  who  had  daily  become  stranger 
in  appearance  and  habits,  though  steadfastly  refusing  to  call  in  his 
old  friend,  Dr  Grose,  was  found  dead  in  his  bed.  He  was  like  a 
boy  who  never  can  quite  succeed  in  pleasing  himself  or  his  masters. 
He  had  gone  to  bed  and  shut  his  eyes,  never  in  this  world  to  open 
them  again. 


48 


Chapter  Five 


AIM  I  sorry  that  almost  beside  myself  with  this  new  afflic- 
tion, and  bewildered  and  frightened  by  the  incessant  coming 
and  going  of  strangers  in  the  house,  I  refused  to  be  carried 
down  to  bid  that  unanswering  face  good-bye?  No,  I  have  no 
regret  on  that  score.  The  older  I  grow  the  more  closely  I  seem  to 
understand  him.  If  phantoms  of  memory  have  any  reality — and  it 
is  wiser,  I  think,  to  remember  the  face  of  the  living  rather  than 
the  stony  peace  of  the  dead — he  has  not  forgotten  his  only 
daughter. 

Double-minded  creature  I  was  and  ever  shall  be ;  now  puffed 
up  with  arrogance  at  the  differences  between  myself  and  gross, 
common-sized  humanity;  now  stupidly  sensitive  to  the  pangs 
to  which  by  reason  of  these  differences  I  have  to  submit.  At 
times  I  have  been  tempted  to  blame  my  parents  for  my  short- 
comings. What  wicked  folly — they  did  not  choose  their  only 
child.  After  all,  too,  fellow  creatures  of  any  size  seem  much 
alike.  They  rarely  have  nothing  to  blame  Providence  for — the 
length  of  their  noses  or  the  size  of  their  feet,  their  bones  or  their 
corpulence,  the  imbecilities  of  their  minds  or  their  bodies,  the 
"accidents"  of  birth,  breeding,  station,  or  circumstance.  Yet  how 
secure  and  perhaps  wholesome  is  Man's  self-satisfaction.  To 
what  ideal  does  he  compare  himself  but  to  a  self-perfected  ab- 
straction of  his  own  image?  Even  his  Venus  and  Apollo  are  mere 
flattering  reflections  of  his  own  he-  or  she-shapes.  And  what  of 
his  anthropomorphic  soul? 

As  for  myself,  Dame  Nature  may  some  day  take  a  fancy  to  the 
dwarf.  "What  a  pretty  play  it  would  be" — I  have  clean  for- 
gotten where  I  chanced  on  this  amusing  passage — "What  a 
pretty  play  it  would  be  if,  from  the  next  generation  onwards,  the 
only  humans  born  into  the  world  should  be  of  mere  pygmy  stature. 
Fifty  years  hence  there  would  remain  but  few  of  the  normal- 
sized  in  the  land.     Imagine  these  aged   few,  miserably  stalking 

49 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

through  the  dwarfed  streets,  picking  up  a  scanty  livelihood  in 
city  or  country-side,  where  their  very  boots  would  be  a  public 
danger,  their  very  tread  would  set  the  bells  in  the  steeples  ringing, 
and  their  appetites  would  be  a  national  incubus.  House,  shop, 
church,  high  road,  furniture,  vehicles  abandoned  or  sunken  to  the 
pygmy  size;  wars  and  ceremonies,  ambitions  and  enterprises, 
everything  but  prayers,  dwindled  to  the  petty.  Would  great- 
grandfather be  venerated,  cherished,  admired,  a  welcome  guest, 
a  lamented  emigrant?  Would  there  be  as  many  mourners  as 
sextons  at  his  funeral,  as  many  wreaths  as  congratulations  at  his 
grave?"     And  so  on  and  so  forth — like  Jonathan  Swift. 

But  I  must  beware.  Partly  from  fatigue  and  partly  from  dis- 
like of  the  version  of  Miss  M.  that  stared  qut  of  his  picture 
at  me,  I  had  begun,  I  remember,  to  be  a  little  fretful  when  old 
Mr  Wagginhorne  was  painting  my  portrait.  And  I  complained 
pertly  that  I  thought  there  were  far  too  many  azaleas  on  the 
potted  bush. 

"Ah,  little  Miss  Finical,"  he  said,  "take  care,  if  you  please. 
Once  there  was  a  Diogenes  whom  the  gods  shut  up  in  a  tub  and 
led  on  his  own  spleen.  He  died.  .  .  .  He  died,"  he  repeated, 
drawing  his  brush  slowly  along  the  canvas,  "of  dyspepsia." 

He  popped  round,  "Think  of  that." 

I  can  think  of  that  to  better  purpose  now,  and  if  there  is  one 
thing  in  the  world  whose  company  I  shall  deplore  in  my  coffin, 
that  thing  is  a  Cynic.  That  is  why  I  am  trying  as  fast  as  I  can 
to  put  down  my  experiences  in  black  and  white  before  the  black 
predominates. 

But  I  must  get  back  to  my  story.  My  poor  father  had  left  his 
affairs  in  the  utmost  disorder.  His  chief  mourners  were  his 
creditors.  Apart  from  these,  one  or  two  old  country  friends  and 
distant  relatives,  I  believe,  attended  his  funeral,  but  none  even 
of  them  can  have  been  profoundly  interested  in  the  Hop,  the 
Oyster,  or  the  Cherry,  at  least  in  the  abstract.  Dr  Grose,  owing 
to  ill-health,  had  given  up  his  practice  and  was  gone  abroad. 
But  though  possibly  inquiry  was  made  after  the  small  creature 
that  had  been  left  behind,  I  stubbornly  shut  myself  away  in  my 
room  under  the  roof,  listening  in  a  fever  of  apprehension  to  every 
sinister  movement  in  the  house  beneath. 

Yet  if  a  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  indeed,  then  I  must  confess 
that  my  treatment  of  Miss  Fenne  was  the  height  of  ingratitude. 
50 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

In  my  grief  and  desolation,  the  future  seemed  to  be  only  a  veil  be- 
yond the  immediate  present,  which  I  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the 
power  to  withdraw.  Miss  Fenne  had  no  such  illusions.  I  begged 
Pollie  to  make  any  excuse  she  could  think  of  to  prevent  her 
from  seeing  me.  But  at  last  she  pushed  her  way  up,  and  doubt- 
less, the  news  and  the  advice  she  brought  were  the  best  tonic  that 
could  have  been  prescribed  for  me. 

As  a  child  I  had  always  associated  my  godmother  with  the 
crocodile  (though  not  with  Mr  Bosch's  charming  conception 
of  it,  in  his  picture  of  the  Creation).  Yet  there  were  no  tears 
in  her  faded  eyes  when  she  explained  that  of  my  father's  modest 
fortune  not  a  pittance  remained.  In  a  few  days  the  house,  with 
everything  in  it  except  my  own  small  sticks  of  furniture,  was  to 
be  sold  by  auction.  I  must  keep  my  door  locked  against  in- 
truders. All  that  would  be  left  to  me  was  a  small  income  of 
about  £110  per  annum,  derived  from  money  bequeathed  to  me 
by  a  relative  of  my  mother's  whom  I  had  never  seen. 

"I  fancy  your  father  knew  nothing  about  it,"  she  concluded, 
"at  least  so  your  dear  mother  seemed  to  imply.  But  there!  it's 
a  sad  business,  a  sad  business.  And  that  Tapa  scandal ;  a 
lamentable  affair."  Having  thus  prepared  the  way,  my  god- 
mother proposed  that  I  should  take  up  my  residence  in  her  house, 
and  commit  my  future  entirely  to  her  charge. 

"You  cannot  be  an  expensive  guest,"  she  explained,  "and  I 
am  sure  you  will  try  to  be  a  grateful  one.  No  truly  conscientious 
godparent,  my  dear  child,  ever  relinquishes  the  soul  committed 
to  her  care.  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  your  poor  dear 
mother  realized  this." 

But  it  was  my  soul,  if  that  is  brother  to  the  spirit  and  can  be 
neighbour  to  pride,  that  revolted  against  her  proposition.  I 
had  to  shut  my  eyes  at  the  very  remembrance  of  Miss  Fenne's 
prim  and  musty  drawing-room.  Every  intimation,  every  jerk 
of  her  trembling  head,  every  pounce  of  her  jewelled  fingers  only 
hardened  my  heart.  Poor  Miss  Fenne.  Her  resentment  at  my 
refusal  seemed  to  increase  her  shortness  of  sight.  Looking  in 
on  her  from  my  balcony,  I  had  the  advantage  of  her,  as  she 
faced  me  in  the  full  light  in  her  chair,  dressed  up  in  her  old 
lady's  clothes  like  a  kind  of  human  Alp  among  my  pygmy 
belongings.  I  tried  to  be  polite,  but  this  only  increased  her 
vexation.     One   smart   tap   of   the   ivory  ball   that   topped   her 

51 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

umbrella  would  have  been  my  coup  de  grace.  She  eyed  me, 
but   never   administered   it. 

At  last  she  drew  in  her  lips  and  fell  silent.  Then,  as  may 
happen  at  such  moments,  her  ill-temper  and  chagrin,  even  the 
sense  of  her  own  dignity  drooped  away,  and  for  a  while  in  the 
quietness  we  were  simply  two  ill-assorted  human  beings,  helpless 
in  the  coils  of  circumstance.  She  composed  her  mouth,  adjusted 
her  bonnet  strings,  peered  a  moment  from  dim  old  eyes  out  of 
the  window,  then  once  more  looked  at  me. 

"It  must  be,  then,  as  God  wills,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"The  spirit  of  your  poor  dear  mother  must  be  judge  between 
us.     She  has,  we  may  trust,  gone  to  a  better  world." 

For  a  moment  my  resolution  seemed  to  flow  away  like  water, 
and  I  all  but  surrendered.  But  a  rook  cawed  close  overhead, 
and  I  bit  my  lip.  Little  more  was  said,  except  that  she  would 
consider  it  her  duty  to  find  me  a  comfortable  and  God-fearing 
home.  But  she  admonished  me  of  the  future,  warned  me  that 
the  world  was  a  network  of  temptations,  and  assured  me  of  her 
prayers.  So  we  parted.  I  bowed  her  out  of  my  domain.  It 
was  the  last  time  we  met.  Two  days  afterwards  I  received  her 
promised  letter: — 

"My  Dear  Godchild, — Mr  Ambrose  Pellew,  an  old  clergyman 
friend  of  mine,  in  whose  discretion  and  knowledge  of  the  world  I 
have  every  confidence,  has  spoken  for  you  to  an  old  married,  re- 
spectable servant  of  his  now  living  a  few  miles  from  London — a  Mrs 
Bowater.  For  the  charge  of  thirty  shillings  a  week  she  has  con- 
sented to  give  you  board,  lodging,  and  reasonable  attendance.  In  all 
the  circumstances  this  seems  to  me  to  be  a  moderate  sum.  Mr  Pellew 
assures  me  that  Mrs  B.  is  clean,  honest,  and  a  practising  Christian. 
When  this  dreadful  Sale  is  over,  I  have  arranged  that  Pollie  shall 
conduct  you  safely  to  whati  will  in  future  be  your  home.  I  trust  that 
you  will  be  as  happy  there  as  Providence  permits,  though  I  cannot 
doubt  that  your  poor  dear  mother  and  your  poor  father,  too,  for  that 
matter,  would  have  wished  otherwise — that  the  roof  of  her  old  friend 
who  was  present  at  your  Baptism  and  insisted  on  your  Confirmation, 
should  have  been  your  refuge  and  asylum  now  that  you  are  absolutely 
alone  in  the  world. 

"However,  you  have  rejected  this  proposal,  and  have  chosen  your 
own  path.  I  am  not  your  legal  guardian,  and  I  am  too  deeply  pained 
to  refer  again  to  your  obstinacy  and  ingratitude.  Rest  assured  that, 
in  spile  of  all,  I  shall  remember  you  in  my  prayers,  and  I  trust,  D.  V., 

52 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

that  you  will  escape  the  temptations  of  this  wicked  world — a  world 
in  which  it  has  pleased  God.  in  spite  of  :rificing  and  anxious 

friends,  to  place  yon  at  so  distressing  a  disadvantage.     But  in   His 
Sight   all    men    are   equal.     Let   that    he   your    continual   consolation. 
Amos  vii.  2;  Prov.  xxxi.  24-28;  Eccles.  xii.  r. 
"I    remain,   your   affectionate   godmother. 

"Emma  E.  Fenne. 


"PS. — I  reopen  this  letter  to  explain  that  your  financial  affairs  are 
in  the  hands  of  Messrs  Harris,  Harris,  and  Harris,  respectable  solici- 
tors of  Gray's  Inn.  They  will  remit  you  on  every  quarter  day — 
Christmas  Day,  Lady  Day,  June  25th  and  September  29th — the  sum  of 
£28  10s.  od.  Of  this  you  will  pay  £19  10s.  at  once  to  Mrs  Bowater, 
who,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  advise  you  on  the  expenditure  of  what  re- 
mains on  wearing  apparel,  self-improvement,  missions,  charity,  and  so 
on.  It  grieves  me  that  from  the  wreckage  of  your  father's  affairs  you 
must  not  anticipate  a  further  straw  of  assistance.  All  his  money 
and  property  will  be  swallowed  up  in  the  dreadful  storm  that  has 
broken  over  what  we  can  only  trust  is  a  tranquil  resting  place. 
R.  I.  P.— E.  E.  F." 


So  sprawling  and  straggling  was  my  godmother's  penman- 
ship that  I  spelled  her  letter  out  at  last  with  a  minifying  glass, 
though  rather  for  forlorn  amusement's  sake  than  by  necessity. 
Not  that  this  diminishment  of  her  handwriting  in  any  sense 
lessened  the  effect  upon  me  of  the  sentiments  it  conveyed. 
They  at  once  daunted  me  and  gave  me  courage.  For  a  little  I 
hesitated,  then  at  last  I  thought  out  in  my  heart  that  God 
might  he  kinder  to  me  than  Miss  Fenne  wished.  Indeed  I  was 
so  invigorated  by  the  anticipation  of  the  "wicked  world,"  that 
I  all  but  called  her  a  crocodile  to  her  phantasmal  face.  Couldn't 
1 — didn't  I — myself  "mean  well"  too?  What  pictures  and 
prospects  of  the  future,  of  my  journey,  of  Mrs  Bowater  and  the 
"network"  pursued  each  other  through  my  brain.  And  what  a 
darkness  oppressed  me  when  a  voice  kept  repeating  over  in 
my  mind — Harris  and  Harris  and  Harris,  as  if  it  were  a  refrain 
to  one  of  my  grandfather's  chansons.  Messrs  Harris  and  Harris 
and  Harris— I  saw  all  three  of  them  (dark  men  witli  whiskers), 
but  trusted  profoundly  they  would  never  come  to  see  me. 

Nor   from  that   day  to  this,  through  all  my  giddying  "ups" 

53 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

and  sobering  "downs"  have  I  ever  for  a  moment  regretted  my 
decision — though  I  might  have  conveyed  it  with  a  little  better 
grace.  My  body,  perhaps  also  my  soul,  would  have  been  safer  in 
the  seclusion  of  my  godmother's  house.  But  my  spirit?  I  think 
it  would  have  beaten  itself  to  death  there  like  a  wasp  on  a  window- 
pane.     Whereas — well,  here  I  am. 


54 


Chapter  Six 


THOSE  last  few  days  of  August  dragged  on — days  of  a  burn- 
ing, windless  heat.  Yet,  as  days,  I  enjoyed  them.  ( )n  sonic 
upper  branch  of  my  family  tree  must  have  flourished  the 
salamander.  Indeed  1  think  I  should  have  been  a  denizen  of 
Venus  rather  than  of  this  colder,  darker  planet.  I  sat  on  my  bal- 
cony, hashing  in  the  hot  sunshine,  my  thoughts  darting  hither  and 
thither  like  flies  under  a  ceiling — those  strange,  winged  creatures 
that  ever  seem  to  be  attempting  to  trace  out  in  their  flittings  the 
starry  "Square  of  Pegasus."  In  spite  of  my  troubles  and  fore- 
bodings, and  fleeting  panics,  my  inward  mind  was  calm.  I 
carefully  packed  away  my  few  little  valuables.  The  very 
notion  of  food  gave  me  nausea,  hut  that  I  determined  to  conquer, 
since  of  course  to  become,  at  either  extreme,  a  slave  to  one's 
stomach,  is  a  folly. 

The  noise  and  tramplings  of  the  men  in  the  rooms  beneath 
never  ceased,  until  Night  brought  quiet.  The  Sale  lasted  for 
two  days.  A  stale  and  clouded  air  ascended  even  into  my  locked 
bedroom  from  the  human  beings  (with  their  dust  and  tobacco 
and  perfumes  and  natural  presences)  collected  together  in  the 
heat  of  the  great  dining-room.  A  hum,  a  murmur,  the  scuffling 
of  feet  toiling  downstairs  with  some  heavy  and  cumbrous  burden, 
the  cries  of  the  auctioneer,  the  coarse  voices  and  laughter,  the 
tinkle  of  glass — the  stretching  hours  seemed  endless;  and  every 
minute  of  them  knelled  the  fate  of  some  beloved  and  familiar 
object.  I  was  glad  my  father  couldn't  hear  the  bidding,  and 
sorry  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know  that  the  most  valuable  of 
his  curios — how  valuable  1  was  to  learn  later — was  safely 
hidden  away  in  an  tipper  room.  So  passed  my  birthday — the 
twentieth  —nor  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder  with.  "Ah.  hut.  my 
dear,  just  you  wait  till  I  come  again!" 

None  the  less  I  thought  a  good  deal  about  birthdays  thai 
afternoon,  and  wondered  how  it  was  that  we  human  beings  can 

55 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bear  even  to  go  on  living  between  two  such  mysteries  as  the  be- 
ginning and  the  end  of  life.  Where  was  my  mother  now?  Where 
was  I  but  two-and-twenty  years  ago?  What  was  all  this  "Past," 
this  "History,"  of  which  I  had  heard  so  much  and  knew  so 
little?  Just  a  story?  Better  brains  than  mine  have  puzzled 
over  these  questions,  and  perhaps  if  I  had  studied  the  phil- 
osophers I  should  know  the  answers.  In  the  evenings,  wrapped 
up  in  a  shawl,  Pollie  carried  me  downstairs,  and  we  took  a  sober 
whispering  walk  in  the  hush  and  perfumes  of  the  deserted  garden. 
Loud  rang  the  tongues  of  the  water  over  the  stones.  The  moths 
were  fluttering  to  their  trysts,  and  from  some  dark  little  coign  the 
cricket  strummed  me  a  solo.  Standing  up  there  in  the  starry 
night  the  great  house  looked  down  on  me  like  an  elder  brother, 
mute  but  compassionate. 

By  the  second  day  after  the  conclusion  of  the  Sale,  the  re- 
movers' vans  and  carts  should  have  gutted  the  rooms  and  be 
gone.  It  had,  therefore,  been  arranged  that  Pollie  should  as 
usual  share  my  bedroom  the  last  night,  and  that  next  day  we 
should  set  off  on  our  journey.  After  luncheon — the  flavour  of 
its  sliced  nectarine  (or  is  it  of  one  that  came  later?)  is  on  my 
tongue  at  this  moment — all  the  rest  of  the  house  being  now  hollow 
and  vacant,  Pollie  put  on  her  hat,  thrust  the  large  door  key  into 
her  pocket,  and  went  off  to  visit  her  mother  in  the  village  and 
to  fetch  a  clean  nightdress.  She  promised  to  return  before  dark. 
Her  shoes  clattered  down  the  stone  stairs,  the  outer  door  boomed 
like  a  gun.  I  spread  out  my  hands  in  the  air,  and  as  if  my  four- 
poster  could  bear  witness,  cried  softly,  "I  am  alone."  Marvel 
of  marvels,  even  as  I  sit  here  to-day  gazing  at  my  inkpot,  there 
in  its  original  corner  stands  that  same  old  four-poster.  Pollie 
is  living  down  in  the  village  with  her  husband  and  her  two  babies ; 
and  once  more:  I  am  alone.  Is  there  anything  in  life  so  fas- 
cinating, so  astonishing,  as  these  queer,  common  little  repetitions? 
Perhaps  on  the  Last  Day — but  I  anticipate. 

I  read  a  little;  wrote  on  the  flyleaf  of  my  diminutive  Johnson, 
"September  i  si,  Lyndsey  for  the  last  time. — M.";  arranged  my 
morrow's  clothes  on  a  chair,  then  sat  down  in  my  balcony  to 
do  nothing,  to  be  nothing,  merely  to  dream.  But  nature  decreed 
otherwise.  Soon  after  six  by  my  grandfather's  clock — it  struck 
the  hour  out  of  its  case,  as  if  out  of  a  sepulchre — a  storm,  which 
56 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

all  the  afternon  had  been  steadily  piling  its  leaden  vapours 
into  space,  began  to  break.  Chizzel  Hill  with  its  prehistoric 
barrow  was  sunk  to  a  green  mound  beneath  those  lowering 
cloudy  heights,  pooling  so  placid  and  lovely  a  blue  between 
them.  The  very  air  seemed  to  thicken,  and  every  tree  stood 
up  as  if  carved  out  of  metal.  Of  a  sudden  a  great  wind,  with 
heavy  plashing  drops  of  rain,  swept  roaring  round  the  house, 
thick  with  dust  and  green  leaves  torn  from  the  dishevelled 
summer  trees.  There  was  a  hush.  The  darkness  intensified, 
and  then  a  vast  sheet  of  lightning  seemed  to  picture  all  Kent 
in  my  eyes,  and  the  air  was  full  of  water. 

One  glance  into  the  obscure  vacancy  of  the  room  behind 
me  persuaded  me  to  remain  where  I  was,  though  the  rain  drove 
me  further  and  further  into  the  corner  of  my  balcony.  Cold, 
and  a  little  scared  by  the  glare  and  din,  yet  not  unhappy,  I 
cowered  close  up  against  the  glass,  and,  shading  my  eyes  as 
best  I  could  from  the  flames  of  the  lightning,  I  watched  the 
storm.  How  long  I  sat  there  I  cannot  say.  The  clamour  lulled 
and  benumbed  my  brain  into  a  kind  of  trance.  My  only  company 
was  a  blackbird  which  had  flown  or  been  blown  into  my  refuge, 
and  with  draggled  feathers  stared  black-eyed  out  of  the  greenery 
at  me.  It  was  gathering  towards  dark  when  the  rain  and 
lightning  began  to  abate,  and  the  sullen  thunder  drew  away 
into  the  distance,  echoing  hollowly  along  the  furthest  horizons. 
At  last,  with  teeth  chattering,  and  stiff  to  my  bones,  I  made 
my  way  into  the  room  again,  and  the  benighted  blackbird  went 
squawking  to  his  nest. 

Slipping  off  my  gown  and  shoes,  and  huddling  myself  in 
the  blankets  and  counterpane  of  my  bed,  I  sat  there  pondering 
what  next  was  to  be  done.  It  would  soon  be  night ;  and  Pollie 
seemed  unlikely  to  appear  until  all  this  turmoil  was  over.  I 
was  not  only  alone,  but  forsaken  and  infinitely  solitary,  a  mere 
sentient  living  speck  in  the  quiet:  sen  of  light  that  washed  ever  and 
again  into  the  gloomiest  recesses  of  the  room.  And  that  familiar 
room  itself  seemed  now  almost  as  cold  and  inhospitable  as  a 
neglected  church.  I  could  hear  the  dark,  vacant  house  beneath 
echoing  and  murmuring  at  every  prolonged  reverberation  of 
thunder,  and  sighing  through  all  its  crannies  and  keyholes. 
My  bedhangings  softly  shook  in  the  air.     Gone  beyond  recovery 

57 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

were  my  father  and  mother :  and  I  now  realized  how  irrevocably. 
I  was  no  longer  a  child;  and  the  responsibilities  of  life  were 
now  wholly  on  my  own  shoulders. 

Yet  I  was  not  utterly  forlorn.  The  great  scene  comforted 
me,  and  now  and  then  I  prayed,  almost  without  thinking  and 
without  words,  just  as  a  little  tune  will  keep  recurring  in  the 
mind.  And  now,  darkness  being  spread  over  the  garden,  in  the 
east  the  moon  was  rising.  Moreover,  a  curious  sight  met  my 
eyes ;  for  as  the  storm  settled,  heavy  rain  in  travelling  showers 
was  still  occasionally  skirting  the  house ;  and  when,  between 
the  heaped-up  masses  of  cloud,  the  distant  lightning  gleamed 
a  faint  vaporous  lilac,  I  saw  motionless  in  the  air,  and  as  if 
suspended  in  their  falling  between  earth  and  sky,  the  multi- 
tudinous glass-clear,  pear-shaped  drops  of  water.  At  sight  of 
these  jewels  thus  crystalling  the  dark  air  I  was  filled  with  such 
a  rapture  that  I  actually  clapped  my  hands.  And  presently 
the  moon  herself  appeared,  as  if  to  be  my  companion.  Serene, 
remote,  she  glided  at  last  from  cover  of  an  enormous  bluff  of 
cloud  into  the  faint-starred  vault  of  space,  seemed  to  pause 
for  an  instant  in  contemplation  of  the  dark  scene,  then  went 
musing  on  her  way.  Beneath  her  silver  all  seemed  at  peace, 
and  it  was  then  that  I  fell  asleep. 

And  while  I  slept,  I  dreamed  a  dream.  My  dreams  often 
commit  me  to  a  quiet  and  radiant  life,  as  if  of  a  reality  less  strange 
to  me  than  that  of  waking.  Others  are  a  mere  uneasiness  and 
folly.  In  the  old  days  I  would  sometimes  tell  my  dreams  to 
Airs  Ballard;  and  she  would  look  them  up  in  a  frowsy  book  she 
kept  in  the  dresser  drawer,  a  brown,  grease-stained  volume 
entitled  Napoleon's  Book  of  Fate.  Then  she  would  promise  me 
a  prince  for  a  husband,  or  that  I  would  be  a  great  traveller 
across  the  sea,  or  that  I  must  beware  of  a  red-haired  woman,  and 
nonsense  of  that  kind.  But  this  particular  dream  remains  more 
vividly  in  my  memory  than  any. 

Well,  I  dreamed  that  I  was  walking  in  a  strange  garden — 
an  orchard.  And,  as  it  seemed,  I  was  either  of  the  common 
human  size,  or  this  was  a  world  wherein  of  human  beings  I  was 
myself  of  the  usual  stature.  The  night  was  still,  like  the  darkest 
picture,  yet  there  must  have  been  light  there,  since  I  could  see  as 
I  walked.  The  grasses  were  coarse  and  deep,  but  they  did  not 
encumber  my  feet,  and  presently  I  found  myself  standing  be- 
58 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

neath  a  tree  whose  branches  in  their  towering  sombre  heaviness 
seemed  to  be  made  of  iron.  Dangling  here  and  there  amid  the 
pendulous  leaves  hung  enormous  fruits— pears  stagnant  and 
heavy  as  shaped  lumps  of  lead  or  of  stone.  Why  the  sight  of 
these  fruits  in  the  obscure  luminosity  of  the  air  around  them  laid 
such  a  spell  upon  me,  I  cannot  say.  I  stood  there  in  the  dew- 
cold  grass,  gazing  up  and  up  into  those  monstrous  branches  as  if 
enchanted,  and  then  of  a  sudden  the  ground  under  my  feet  seemed 
faintly  to  tremble  as  if  at  a  muffled  blow.  One  of  the  fruits  in 
my  dream,  now  come  to  ripeness,  had  fallen  stone-like  from 
above.  Then  again — thud!  Realization  of  the  dreadful  danger 
in  which  I  stood  swept  over  me.  I  turned  to  escape,  and  awoke, 
shivering  and  in  a  suffocating  heat,  to  discover  in  the  moonlight 
that  now   Hooded  my  room  where  in  actuality  I  was. 

Yet  still,  as  it  seemed,  the  dying  rumour  of  the  sound  persisted, 
and  surely,  I  thought,  it  must  be  poor,  careless  Pollie,  her  key 
forgotten,  come  back  in  the  darkness  after  the  storm,  and  ham- 
mering with  the  great  knocker  on  the  door  below.  Hardly  a 
minute  had  passed  indeed  before  the  whole  house  resounded  again 
with  her  thumping.  One  seldom  finds  Courage  keeping  tryst  on 
the  outskirts  of  sleep,  and  there  was  a  vehemence  in  the  knocking 
as  if  Pollie  was  in  an  extremity  of  fear  at  finding  herself  under 
the  vacant  house  alone  in  the  night.  The  thought  of  going  to  her 
rescue  set  my  teeth  chattering.  I  threw  back  the  bedclothes  and 
gazed  at  the  moon,  and  the  longer  I  sat  there  the  more  clearly  I 
realized  that  I  must  somehow  descend  the  stairs,  convey  to  her 
that  I  was  safe,  and,  if  possible,  let  her  in. 

Three  steep  stone  flights  separated  us,  stairs  which  1  had  very 
rarely  ascended  or  descended  except  in  her  arms.  I  thrust  my 
toot  out;  all  was  still;  1  must  go  at  once.  But  what  of  light? 
The  moon  was  on  this  side  of  the  house.  It  might  be  pitch  dark 
on  the  lower  landings  and  in  the  hall.  ( )n  the  stool  by  her  bedside 
stood  Pollie's  copper  candlestick,  with  an  inch  or  two  of  candle 
in  it  and  a  box  of  matches.  It  was  a  thick-set  tallow  candle  and 
none  too  convenient  for  me  to  grasp.  With  this  alight  in  my 
hand,  the  stick  being  too  cumbersome.  I  set  out  on  my  errand. 
The  air  was  cool;  the  moon  shone  lustily.  Just  waked  from 
sleep  my  mind  was  curiously  exalted.  I  sallied  out  into  the 
empty  corridor.  A  pace  or  two  beyond  the  threshold  my  heart 
seemed  to  swell  up  in  my  body,  for  it  seemed  that  at  the  head  of 

59 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  staircase  lay  stretched  the  still  form  of  my  mother  as  I  had 
found  her  in  the  cold  midnight  hours  long  ago.  It  was  but  a 
play  of  light,  a  trick  of  fantasy.  I  recovered  my  breath  and  went 
on. 

To  leap  from  stair  to  stair  was  far  too  formidable  a  means  of 
progression.  I  should  certainly  have  dashed  out  my  brains.  So 
1  must  sit,  and  jump  sitting,  manipulating  my  candle  as  best  I 
could.  In  this  sidling,  undignified  fashion,  my  eyes  fixed  only 
on  the  stair  beneath  me,  I  mastered  the  first  flight,  and  paused  to 
rest.  What  a  medley  of  furtive  sounds  ascended  to  my  ear  from 
the  desolate  rooms  below :  the  heavy  plash  of  raindrop  from  the 
eaves,  scurry  and  squeak  of  mouse,  rustle  of  straw,  a  stirring — 
light  as  the  settling  of  dust,  crack  of  timber,  an  infinitely  faint 
whisper ;  and  from  without,  the  whistle  of  bat,  the  stony  murmur 
of  the  garden  stream,  the  hunting  screech  of  some  predatory 
night-fowl  over  the  soaked  and  tranquil  harvest  fields.  And  who, 
Who? — that  shape?  ...  I  turned  sharply,  and  the  melted  tallow 
of  the  guttering  candle  welled  over  and  smartly  burned  the  hand 
that  held  it.  The  pain  gave  me  confidence.  But  better  than  that, 
a  voice  from  below  suddenly  broke  out,  not  Pollie's  but  Adam 
Waggett's,  hollaing  in  the  porch.  Adam — the  wren-slaughterer 
— prove  me  a  coward?  No,  indeed.  All  misgiving  gone,  I 
girded  my  dressing-gown  tighter  around  me,  and  continued  the 
descent. 

It  was  a  jolting  and  arduous  business,  and  as  I  paused  on  the 
next  landing,  I  now  looked  into  the  moon-bathed  vacancy  of  my 
father's  bedroom.  Dismantled,  littered  with  paper  and  the  frag- 
ments of  wood  and  glass  of  a  picture  my  mother  had  given  him, 
a  great  hole  in  the  plaster,  a  broken  chair  straddling  in  the  midst — 
a  hideous  spectacle  it  was.  An  immense  moth  with  greenly  glow- 
ing eyes,  lured  out  of  its  roosting  place,  came  fluttering  round  my 
candle,  fanning  my  cheek  with  its  plumy  wings.  I  shaded  the 
flame  and  smiled  up  at  the  creature  which,  not  being  of  a  kind 
that  is  bent  on  self-slaughter,  presently  wafted  away.  The  lower 
I  descended  the  filthier  grew  my  journey.  My  stub  of  candle  was 
fast  wasting;  and  what  use  should  I  be  to  Pollie's  messenger? 
When  indeed  in  the  muck  and  refuse  left  by  the  Sale,  I  reached 
the  door,  it  was  too  late.  He  was  now  beating  with  his  fists  at  the 
rear  of  the  house ;  and  I  must  needs  climb  down  the  last  flight  of 
the  back  wooden  staircase  used  by  the  servants.  When  at  last 
60 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  -real  stagnant  kitchen  came  into  view,  it  was  my  whole  in- 
ward self  that  cried  out  in  me.  Its  stone  Hags  were  swarming 
with  cockroaches. 

These  shelled,  nocturnal,  sour-smelling  creature-,  are  am 
the  few  insects  that  fill  me  with  horror.  By  comparison  the 
devil's  coachman  may  he  worse-tempered,  but  he  is  a  gentleman. 
The  very  thought  of  one  of  them  rearing  itself  against  my  slip- 
pered foot  tilled  me  with  disgust  ;  and  the  males  were  winged. 
They  went  scurrying  away  into  hiding,  infants  seemingly  to  their 
mothers,  whisper,  whisper — I  felt  sick  at  the  sight.  There  came 
a  noise  at  the  window.  Peering  from  round  my  candle  dame  I 
perceived  Adam's  dusky  face,  with  its  long  nose,  staring  in  at  me 
through  the  glass.  At  sight  of  the  plight  I  was  in,  he  hurst  into  a 
prolonged  guffaw  of  laughter.  This  enraged  me  beyond  measure. 
I  stamped  my  foot,  and  at  last  he  sobered  down  enough  to  yell 
through  the  glass  that  Pollie's  mother  had  sent  him  to  see  that  I 
was  safe  and  had  forgotten  to  give  him  the  house-key.  Pollie 
herself  would  be  with  me  next  morning. 

I  waved  my  candle  at  him  in  token  that  I  understood.  At  this 
the  melted  grease  once  more  trickled  over  and  ran  scalding  up 
my  arm.  The  candle  fell  to  the  floor,  went  out ;  the  pale  moon- 
shine spread  through  the  air.  I  could  see  Adam's  conical  head 
outlined  against  the  soft  light  of  the  sky;  though  he  could  no 
longer  see  me.  Horror  of  the  cockroaches  returned  on  me.  In- 
stantly I  turned  tail,  leaving  the  lump  of  tallow  for  their  spoil. 

How,  in  that  dark,  high  house,  I  managed  to  remount  those 
stairs,  I  cannot  conceive.  Youth  and  persistency,  I  suppose. 
I  doubt  if  I  could  do  it  now.  Utterly  exhausted  and  bedraggled 
1  regained  my  bedroom  at  last  without  further  misadventure.  I 
sponged  the  smoke  and  grime  from  face  and  hands  in  my  wash- 
bowl, hung  my  dressing-gown  where  the  morning  air  might  re- 
fresh it,  and  was  soon  in  a  dead  sleep,  from  which  I  think  even 
the  Angel  Gabriel  would  have  failed  to  arouse  me. 


61 


Chapter  Seven 


WHEN  I  awoke,  the  morning  sky  was  gay  with  sunshine, 
there  was  a  lisping  and  gurgling  of  starlings  on  the  roof, 
the  roar  of  the  little  river  in  flood  after  the  rains  shook 
the  air  at  my  window,  and  there  sat  Pollie,  in  her  outdoor  clothes, 
the  rest  of  the  packing  done  and  she  awaiting  breakfast.  Unstir- 
ringly  from  my  pillow  I  scrutinized  the  plump,  red-cheeked  face 
with  its  pale-blue  prominent  eyes  dreaming  out  of  the  window;  and 
sorrow  welled  up  in  me  at  the  thought  of  the  past  and  of  how  near 
drew  our  separation.  She  heard  me  move,  and  kneeling  and 
stooping  low  over  my  bed,  with  her  work-roughened  finger  she 
stroked  the  hand  that  lay  on  my  coverlet.  A  pretty  sight  I  must 
have  looked — after  my  night's  experiences.  We  whispered  a  little 
together.  She  was  now  a  sedater  young  woman,  but  still  my 
Pollie  of  the  apples  and  novelettes.  And  whether  or  not  it  is  be- 
cause early  custom  is  second  nature,  she  is  still  the  only  person 
whom  my  skin  does  not  a  little  creep  against  when  necessity  calls 
for  a  beast  of  burden. 

Her  desertion  of  me  the  night  before  had  been  caused  by  the 
untimely  death  of  one  of  her  father's  three  Alderney  cows — a 
mild,  horned  creature,  which  I  had  myself  oiten  seen  in  the  mead- 
ows cropping  among  the  buttercups,  and  whose  rich-breathed  nose 
I  had  once  had  the  courage  to  ask  to  stroke  with  my  hand.  This 
ill-fated  beast  at  first  threat  of  the  storm,  had  taken  shelter  with 
her  companions  under  an  oak.  Scarcely  had  the  lightnings  begun 
to  play  when  she  was  struck  down  by  a  ''thunderbolt."  It  was 
a  tragedy  after  Pollie's  heart.  She  had  (she  said)  fainted  dead 
ofif  at  news  of  it — and  we  bemoaned  the  event  in  concert.  In  re- 
turn I  told  her  my  dream  of  the  garden.  Nothing  would  then 
content  her  but  she  must  fetch  from  under  her  mattress  Napo- 
leons Book  of  Fate,  a  legacy  from  Mrs  Ballard. 

"But,   Pollie,"  I  demurred;  "a  dream  is  only  a  dream." 
"Honest,  miss,"  she  replied,  thumbing  over  the  pages,  ''there's 
62 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

some  of  'em  means  what  happens  and  comes  true,  and  they'll 
tell  secrets  too  if  they  be  searched  about.  More'n  a  month  before 
.Mrs  Ballard  fell  out  with  master  she  dreamed  that  one  of  the 

speckled  hens  had  laid  an  egg  in  the  kitchen  dresser.  There  it  was 
clucking  among  the  crockery.  And  to  dream  of  eggs,  the  book 
says,  is  to  be  certain  sure  of  getting  the  place  you  are  after,  and 
which  she  wrote  off  to  a  friend  in  London  and  is  there  now!" 

What  more  was  there  to  say?  So  presently  Pollie  succeeded  in 
turning  to  "Pears"  in  the  grease-grimed  book,  and  spelled  out 
slowly : — 

"Peaks. — To  dream  of  pears  is  in-di-ca-tive  of  great  wealth 
(which  means  riches,  miss)  ;  and  that  you  will  rise  to  a  much  higher 
spear  than  the  one  you  at  present  occupy.  To  a  woman  they  denote 
that  >hc  will  marry  a  person  far  above  her  in  rank  (lords  and  such- 
like, miss,  if  you  please),  and  that  she  will  live  in  great  state.  To 
persons  in  trade  they  denote  success  and  future  prosperity  and 
deviation.  They  also  indi-  indicate  constancy  in  love  and  happiness 
in  the  marriage  state." 

Her  red  cheeks  grew  redder  with  this  exertion  of  scholarship, 
and  I  burst  out  laughing.  "Ah,  miss,"  she  cried  in  confusion, 
"laugh  you  may,  and  that's  what  Sarah  said  to  the  Angel.  But 
mark  my  words  if  something  of  it  don't  hap  out  like  what  the 
book  says." 

"Then,  Pollie,"  said  I,  "there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  a 
butcher's  shop.  For  live  in  great  state  1  can't  and  won't,  not  if 
the  Prince  of  Wales  himself  was  to  ask  me  in  marriage." 

"Lor,  miss,"  retorted  Pollie  in  shocked  accents,  "and  him  a 
married  man  with  grown-up  sons  and  all."  Hut  she  forgave  me 
my  mockery.  As  for  the  Dream  Book,  doubtless  young  Bonaparte 
must  often  have  dreamed  of  Pears  in  Corsica  ;  and  no  less  indubi- 
tably have  1  lived  in  "great  state" — though  without  much  devi- 
ation. 

Put  the  day  was  hasting  on.  My  toilet  must  be  made,  and  the 
preparations  for  our  journey  completed.  Now  that  the  dawn 
of  my  new  fortunes  was  risen,  expectancy  filled  my  mind,  and 
the  rain-freshened  skies  and  leaves  of  the  morning  renewed  my 
spirits.  Our  train — the  first  in  my  experience — was  timed  to  leave 
our  country  railway  station  at  3.3  p.m.  By  one  o'clock,  all  the 
personal  luggage  that   I   was  to   take   with  me  had  been  sewn 

63 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

up  in  a  square  of  canvas,  and  corded.  The  rest  of  my  belongings 
— my  four-poster,  etc. — were  to  be  stowed  in  a  large  packing-case 
and  sent  after  me.  First  impressions  endure.  No  great  store  of 
sagacity  was  needed  to  tell  me  that.  So  I  had  chosen  my  clothes 
carefully,  determined  to  show  my  landlady  that  I  meant  to  have  my 
own  way  and  not  be  trifled  with.  My  dear  Mrs  Bowater ! — she 
would  be  amused  to  hear  that. 

Pollie  bustled  downstairs.  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  sunlit, 
dismantled  room,  light  and  shadow  at  play  upon  ceiling  and  walls, 
the  sun-pierced  air  a  silvery  haze  of  dust.  A  host  of  memories  and 
thoughts,  like  a  procession  in  a  dream,  traversed  my  mind.  A 
strangeness,  too — as  if  even  this  novel  experience  of  farewell  was  a 
vague  recollection  beyond  defined  recall.  Pollie  returned  with  the 
new  hat  in  the  paper  bag  in  which  she  had  brought  it  from  home : 
and  I  was  her  looking-glass  when  she  had  put  it  on.  Then  from 
top  to  basement  she  carried  me  through  every  room  in  the  house, 
and  there  on  the  kitchen  floor,  mute  witness  of  the  past,  lay  the 
beetle-gnawn  remnant  of  my  candle-stub.  We  wandered  through 
the  garden,  glinting  green  in  the  cool  flocking  sunbeams  after  the 
rain ;  and  already  vaunting  its  escape  from  Man.  Pollie  was  re- 
turning to  Lyndsey — I  not !  My  heart  was  too  full  to  let  me  linger 
by  the  water.  I  gazed  at  the  stones  and  the  wild  flowers  in  a  sor- 
rowful hunger  of  farewell.  Trifles,  soon  to  be  dying,  how  lovely 
they  were.  The  thought  of  it  swallowed  me  up.  What  was  the 
future  but  an  emptiness  ?  Would  that  I  might  vanish  away  and  be 
but  a  portion  of  the  sweetness  of  the  morning.  Even  Pollie's  im- 
perturbable face  wore  the  appearance  of  make-believe ;  for  an  in- 
stant I  surprised  the  whole  image  of  me  reflected  in  her  round  blue 
eye. 

The  Waggetts'  wagonette  was  at  the  door,  but  not — and 
I  was  thankful — not  my  Adam,  but  the  old  Adam,  his  father.  My 
luggage  was  pushed  under  the  seat.  I  was  set  up,  to  be  screened 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  wind,  beside  Pollie  and  behind  Mr 
Waggett — no  stranger  to  me  with  his  neat,  dark  whiskers,  for  in 
the  old  days,  al  dinner  parties,  he  would  wait  at  table.  I  see  him 
now — as  gentlemanlike  as  a  Devil's  Coachhorse — entering  the 
kitchen  with  his  little  black  bag.  Only  once  I  swiftly  turned  my 
head  over  my  shoulder  toward  the  house.  Then  we  were  outside 
the  iron  gates,  and  bumping  along  through  the  puddles  between  the 
bowery  hedges  towards  the  station. 
64 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  thought  of  my  father  and  mother  lying  side  by  side,  beyond  the 

sullen  drift  of  nettles,  under  the  churchyard  wall.  Miss  Fenne 
had  taken  me  there  many  weeks  before  in  her  faded  barouche  with 
the  gaunt  white  mare.  Not  a  word  had  I  breathed  to  her  of  my 
anguish  at  sight  of  the  churchyard.  The  whole  afternoon  was  a 
nightmare.  She  regaled  the  journey  with  sentiments  on  death  and 
the  grave.  Throughout  it,  I  was  in  danger  of  slipping  out  of  her 
sight;  for  the  huttons  on  the  sage-green  leather  seat  were  not  only 
a  discomfort  but  had  failed  to  aid  me  to  sit  upright ;  and  nothing 
would  have  induced  me  to  catch  at  the  trimmings  of  her  dolman  to 
save  myself  from  actually  falling  off  into  the  pit  of  her  carriage. 
There  sat  her  ancient  coachman  ;  clutter-clutter  plodded  the  hoofs; 
what  a  monstrous,  monstrous  world — and  she  cackling  on  and 
on — like  a  hen  over  its  egg. 

But  now  the  novelty  of  this  present  experience,  the  flowery 
cottages,  Mr  Waggett's  square,  sorrel  nag,  the  ballooning  north- 
westerly clouds,  the  aromatic  rusty  hedgerows,  the  rooks  in  the 
cornfields — all  these  sights  and  sounds  called  joy  into  my  mind. 
and  far  too  soon  the  bright-painted  railway  station  at  the  hill- 
bottom  hove  into  sight,  and  our  drive  was  over.  1  was  lifted 
down  into  Pollie's  arms  again.  Then  followed  a  foolish  chaffer- 
ing over  the  tickets,  which  Mr  Waggett  had  volunteered  to  pur- 
chase for  us  at  the  rounded  window.  The  looming  face  beyond 
had  caught  sight  of  me,  and  the  last  word-  1  heard  bawled  through 
for  any  to  hear  were:  "Lor,  Mr  Waggett,  I'd  make  it  a  quarter 
for  'ee  if  it  was  within  regulations.  But  'tain't  so.  the  young 
Lady's  full  natural  size  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  I  couldn't  give 
in  to  'ee  not  even  if  'twas  a  honeymooning  you  was  after."  No 
doubt  it  was  wholesome  to  learn  as  quickly  as  p»ssihle  how 
easy  a  butt  I  was  to  be  for  the  jests  of  the  good-humoured.  On 
that  occasion  it  was  a  bitter  pill.  I  felt  even  Pollie  choke  down 
a    laugh    into    her    bosom.     My    cheek    whitened,    hut    I    said 

nothing'. 

An  enormous  din  at  the  moment  shattered  around  me.  ten  thou- 
sand times  harsher  to  my  nerves  than  any  mere  witticism  could  be. 
My  first  "steam-monster"  was  entering  the  station.  All  but 
stunned  by  its  clatter,  I  barely  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  thank- 
Mr  Waggett  for  the  little  straw  basket  of  three  greengages,  and 
the  nosegay  of  cherry-pie  which  he  had  thrust  into  my  arms.  My 
canvas-wrapped  package  was  pushed  in  under  the  seat,  the  door 

65 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

was  slammed  to,  the  guard  waved  his  green  flag,  Mr  Waggett 
touched  his  hat:  and  our  journey  was  begun. 

Fortunately  Pollie  and  I  found  ourselves  in  an  empty  carriage. 
The  scream  of  the  whistle,  the  grinding  jar  of  the  wheels,  the  op- 
pressive odour  of  Mr  Waggett's  bouquet — I  leaned  back  on  her  to 
recover  my  wits.  But  the  cool  air  blowing  in  on  my  face  and  a 
far-away  sniff  from  a  little  glass  bottle  with  which  her  mother  had 
fortified  her  for  the  journey,  quickly  revived  me,  and  I  was  free  to 
enjoy  the  novelties  of  steam-travel.  My  eyes  dizzied  at  the  wide 
revolving  scene  that  was  now  spread  out  beneath  the  feathery 
vapours.  How  strange  it  was  to  see  the  green  country  world — 
meadow  and  stream  and  wooded  hill — thus  wheel  softly  by.  If 
Pollie  and  I  could  have  shared  it  alone,  it  would  have  been  among 
my  pleasantest  memories. 

But  at  the  next  stopping  places  other  passengers  climbed  into  the 
carriage ;  and  five  complete  strangers  soon  shared  the  grained  wood 
box  in  which  we  were  enclosed.  There  was  a  lady  in  black,  with 
her  hair  smoothed  up  under  her  bonnet,  and  a  long  pale  nose ;  and 
up  against  her  sat  her  little  boy,  a  fine  fair,  staring  child  of  about 
five  years  of  age.  A  black-clothed,  fat  little  man  with  a  rusty 
leather  bag,  over  the  lock  of  which  he  kept  clasped  his  finger  and 
thumb,  quietly  seated  himself.  He  cast  but  one  dark  glance  about 
him  and  immediately  shut  his  eyes.  In  the  corner  was  an  older 
man  with  a  beard  under  his  chin,  gaiters,  and  a  hard,  wide- 
brimmed  hat.  Besides  these,  there  was  a  fat  countrywoman  on 
the  same  side  as  Pollie  and  I,  whom  I  could  hear  breathing  and 
could  not  see,  and  a  dried-up,  bird-eyed  woman  opposite  in  a 
check  shawl,  with  heavy  metal  ear-rings  dangling  at  her  ears. 
She  sat  staring  blankly  and  bleakly  at  things  close  as  if  they  were 
at  a  distance. 

My  spirit  drank  in  this  company.  So  rapt  was  I  that  I  might 
have  been  a  stock  of  wood.  Gathered  together  in  this  small  space 
they  had  the  appearance  of  animals,  and,  if  they  had  not  been  hu- 
man, what  very  alarming  ones.  As  long  as  I  merely  sat  and 
watched  their  habits  I  remained  unnoticed.  But  the  afternoon  sun 
streamed  hot  on  roof  and  windows :  and  the  confined  air  was  soon 
so  dense  with  a  variety  of  odours,  that  once  more  my  brain  dizzied, 
and  I  must  clutch  at  Pollie's  ami  for  support.  At  this  movement 
the  little  boy,  who  had  more  than  once  furtively  glanced  at  me, 
66 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

crouched  wriggling  back  against  his  mother,  and,  edging  his  face 
aside,  piped  up  into  her  ear,  "Mamma,  is  that  alive?" 

The  train  now  stood  motionless,  a  fine  array  of  hollyhocks  and 
sunflowers  Bared  beyond  the  window,  and  his  voice  rang  out  shrill 
as  a  bird  in  the  quiet  of  afternoon.  Tiny  points  of  heat  broke  out 
all  over  me,  as  one  by  one  my  fellow  passengers  turned  their  aston- 
ished faces  in  my  direction.  Even  the  man  with  the  leather  bag 
heard  the  question.  The  small,  bead-brown  eyes  wheeled  from 
under  their  white  lids  and  fixed  me  with  their  stare. 

"Hush,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady,  no  less  intent  but  less  open  in 
her  survey ;  "hush,  look  at  the  pretty  cows !" 

"But  she  is,  mamma.  It  moved.  I  saw  that  move,"  he  assever- 
ated, looking  along  cornerwise  at  me  out  of  his  uptilted  face. 

Those  blue  eyes!  a  mingling  of  delight,  horror,  incredulity,  even 
greed  swam  in  their  shallow  deeps.  I  stood  leaning  close  to 
Pollie's  bosom,  breathless  and  helpless,  a  fascinating  object,  no 
doubt.  Never  before  had  I  been  transfixed  like  this  in  one  con- 
gregated stare.  I  felt  myself  gasp  like  a  fish.  It  was  the 
old  farmer  in  the  corner  who  at  last  came  to  my  rescue.  "Ali.e! 
/  warrant.  Eh,  ma'am?"  he  appealed  to  poor  Pollie.  "And  an 
uncommon  neat-fashioned  young  lady,  too.  Off  to  Whipham 
Fair,  I'll  be  bound." 

The  bag-man  turned  with  a  creeping  grin  on  his  tallowy 
features  and  muttered  some  inaudible  jest  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  to  the  gipsy.  She  eyed  him  fiercely,  drawing  her  lips 
from  her  bright  teeth  in  a  grimace  more  of  contempt  than  laugh- 
ter.    Once  more  the  engine  hooted  and  we  glided  on  our  way. 

"I  want  that,  mamma,"  whispered  the  child.  "I  want  thai,  dear 
little  lady.     Give  that  teeny  tiny  lady  a  biscuit." 

At  this  new  sally  universal  merriment  filled  the  carriage.  We 
were  jogging  along  in  fine  style.  This,  then,  was  Miss  Fenne's 
"network."  A  helpless  misery  and  bitterness  swept  through  me, 
the  heavy  air  swirled ;  and  then — whence,  from  whom,  I  know  not 
— self-possession  returned  to  me.  Why,  I  had  chosen  my  fate: 
I  must  hold  my  own. 

My  young  admirer,  much  against  his  mother's  inclination,  had 
managed  to  fetch  out  a  biscuit  from  her  reticule — a  star-shaped 
thing,  graced  with  a  cone  of  rose-tinted  sugar.  Still  crouching 
back  like  a  chick  under  her  wing,  he  stretched  his  bribe  out  at 

67 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

arm's  length  towards  me,  in  a  pink,  sweat-sparked  hand.  All  this 
while  Pollie  had  sat  like  a  lump  beside  me,  clutching  her  basket,  a 
vacant,  flushed  smile  on  her  round  face.  I  drew  myself  up,  and 
supporting  myself  by  her  wicker  basket,  advanced  with  all  the 
dignity  at  my  command  to  the  peak  of  her  knees,  and,  stretching 
out  my  hand  in  return,  accepted  the  gift.  I  even  managed  to  make 
him  an  indulgent  little  bow,  feigned  a  nibble  at  the  lump  of  food, 
then  planted  it  on  the  dusty  ledge  beneath  the  carriage  window. 

A  peculiar  silence  followed.  With  a  long  sigh  the  child  hid  his 
face  in  his  mother's  sleeve.  She  drew  him  closer  and  smiled  care- 
fully into  nothingness.  "There,"  she  murmured,  "now  mother's 
treasure  must  sit  still  and  be  a  good  boy.  I  can't  think  why  papa 
didn't  take — second-class  tickets." 

"But  nor  did  that  kind  little  lady's  papa,"  returned  the  child 
stoutly. 

The  kindly  old  farmer  continued  to  gloat  on  me,  gnarled  hands 
on  knees.  But  I  could  not  bear  it.  I  quietly  surveyed  him  until 
he  was  compelled  to  rub  his  face  with  his  fingers,  and  so  cover  its 
retreat  to  his  own  window.  The  gipsy  woman  kept  her  ferocious, 
birdlike  stare  on  me,  with  an  occasional  stealthy  glance  at  Pollie. 
The  bag-man's  lids  closed  down.  For  the  rest  of  the  journey — 
though  passengers  came  and  went — I  kept  well  back,  and  was  left 
in  peace.  It  was  my  first  real  taste  of  the  world's  curiosity,  mock- 
ery, aversion,  and  flattery.  One  practical  lesson  it  taught  me. 
From  that  day  forward  I  never  set  out  on  any  such  journey  unless 
thickly  veiled.  For  then,  though  the  inquisitive  may  see  me,  they 
cannot  tell  whether  or  not  I  see  them,  or  what  my  feelings  may  be. 
It  is  a  real  comfort ;  though,  from  what  I  have  read,  it  appears  to 
be  the  condition  rather  of  a  ghost  than  of  a  normal  young  lady. 

But  now  the  sun  had  begun  to  descend  and  the  rays  of  evening 
to  stain  the  fields.  We  loitered  on  from  station  to  station.  To  my 
relief  Pollie  had  at  last  munched  her  way  through  the  pasties  and 
sweetmeats  stowed  in  her  basket.  My  nosegay  of  cherry-pie  was 
fainting  for  want  of  water.  In  heavy  sleep  the  bag-man  and 
gipsy  sat  woodenly  nodding  and  jerking  side  by  side.  The  lady 
had  delicately  composed  her  face  and  shut  her  eyes.  The  little 
boy  slumbered  serenely  with  his  small  red  mouth  wide  open. 
Languid  and  heavy,  I  dared  not  relax  my  vigilance.  But  in  the 
desolation  that  gathered  over  me  I  almost  forgot  my  human  com- 
pany, and  returned  to  the  empty  house  which  seemingly  I  had  left 
68  " 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

for  ever-  the  shadows  of  yet  another  nightfall  already  lengthen- 
ing over  its  flowers  and  sward. 

Could  I  not  hear  the  silken  rustle  of  the  evening  primrose  un- 
folding her  petals?  Soon  the  cool  dews  would  he  falling  on  the 
stones  where  I  was  wont  to  sit  in  reverie  heside  the  flowing  water. 
It  seemed  indeed  that  my  self  had  slipped  from  my  body,  and  hov- 
ered entranced  amid  the  thousand  jargonings  of  its  tangled  lulla- 
by. Was  there,  in  truth,  a  wraith  in  me  that  could  so  steal  out; 
and  were  the  invisible  inhabitants  in  their  fortresses  beside  my 
stream  conscious  of  its  presence  among  them,  and  as  happy  in  my 
spectral  company  as  I  in  theirs? 

I  floated  up  out  of  these  ruminations  to  find  that  my  young  pasha 
had  softly  awakened  and  was  gazing  at  me  in  utter  incredulity 
from  sleep-gilded  eyes.  We  exchanged  a  still,  protracted,  dwell- 
ing smile,  and  for  the  only  time  in  my  life  I  actually  saw  a  fellow- 
creature  fall  in  love ! 

"Oh,  but  mamma,  mamma,  I  do  beseech  you,"  he  called  up 
at  her  from  the  platform  where  he  was  taking  his  last  look  at 
me  through  the  dingy  oblong  window,  "please,  please,  I  want  her 
for  mine ;  I  want  her  for  mine  !" 

I  held  up  his  biscuit  in  my  hand,  laughing  and  nodding.  The 
whistle  knelled,  our  narrow  box  drew  slowly  out  of  the  station. 
As  if  heartbroken,  he  took  his  last  look  at  me,  petulantly  flinging 
aside  his  mother's  hand.  He  had  lost  me  for  ever,  and  Pollie 
and   I   were  alone  again. 


69 


Beechwood 


Chapter  Eight 


STILL  the  slow  train  bumped  on,  loath  to  drag  itself  away 
from  the  happy  harvest  fields.  Darkness  was  near  when 
we  ourselves  alighted  at  our  destination,  mounted  into 
a  four-wheeled  cab,  and  once  more  were  in  motion  in  the  rain- 
laid  dust.  On  and  on  rolled  Pollie  and  I  and  our  luggage 
together,  in  such  ease  and  concealment  after  the  hard  wooden 
seats  and  garish  light  that  our  journey  began  to  seem — as 
indeed  I  wished  for  the  moment  it  might  prove — interminable. 
One  after  another  the  high  street  lamps  approached,  flung 
their  radiance  into  our  musty  velvet  cabin,  and  went  gliding  by. 
Ever  and  again  the  luminous  square  of  a  window  beyond  the 
outspread  branches  of  a  tree  would  float  on.  Then  suddenly 
our  narrow  solitude  was  invaded  by  the  bright  continuous  flare 
thing  into  it  from  a  row  of  shops. 

Never  before  had  I  been  out  after  nightfall.  I  gazed  en- 
thralled at  the  splendours  of  fruit  and  cakes,  silks  and  sweetmeats 
packed  high  behind  the  glass  fronts.  Wasn't  I  myself  the 
heiress  of  ino  a  year?  Indeed  I  was  drinking  in  Romance, 
.and  never  traveller  surveyed  golden  Moscow  or  the  steeps  of 
Tibet  with  'keener  relish  than  I  the  liquid  amber,  ruby,  and  em- 
erald that  summoned  its  customers  to  a  wayside  chemist's  shop. 
Twenty — what  a  child  I  was !  I  smile  now  at  these  recollections 
with  an  indulgence  not  unmixed  with  envy.  It  is  Moscow  sur- 
vives, not  the  artless  traveller. 

After  climbing  a  long  hill — the  wayside  houses  steadily  thin- 
ning out  as  we  ascended — the  cab  came  to  a  standstill.  The 
immense,  shapeless  old  man  who  had  so  miraculously  found 
our  way  for  us,  and  who  on  this  mild  August  evening  was 
muffled  up  to  his  eyes  in  a  thick  ulster,  climbed  down  back- 
wards from  his  box  and  opened  the  door.  At  the  same  moment, 
as  if  by  clockwork,  opened  another  door — that  of  the  last  house 
on  the  hill.     I  was  peering  out  of  the  cab,  then,  at  my  home; 

73 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

and  framed  in  that  lighted  oblong  stood  Mrs  Bowater.  All 
utterly  different  from  what  I  had  foreseen :  this  much  smaller 
house,  this  much  taller  landlady,  and — dear  me,  how  fondly 
I  had  trusted  that  she  would  not  for  the  first  time  set  eyes  on 
her  lodger  being  carried  into  her  house.  I  had  in  fancy 
pictured  myself  bowing  a  composed  and  impressive  greeting  to 
her  from  her  own  hearthrug.     But  it  was  not  to  be. 

Pollie  lifted  me  out,  settled  me  on  her  arm,  and  my  feet  did 
not  touch  terra  firma  again  until  she  had  ascended  the  five 
stone  steps  and  we  were  within  the  passage. 

"Lor,  miss ;  then  here  we  are,"  she  sighed  breathlessly,  then 
returned  to  the  cabman  to  pay  him  his  fare.  Even  dwarfed 
a  little  perhaps  by  my  mourning,  there  I  stood,  breathed  upon 
by  the  warm  air  of  the  house,  in  the  midst  of  a  prickly  door- 
mat, on  the  edge  of  the  shiny  patterned  oilcloth  that  glossed  away 
into  the  obscurity  from  under  the  gaslight  in  front  of  me ;  and 
there  stood  my  future  landlady.  For  the  first  time,  with  head 
thrown  back,  I  scanned  a  countenance  that  was  soon  to  become  so 
familiar  and  so  endeared.  Mrs  Bowater"s  was  a  stiff  and 
angular  figure.  She,  too,  was  in  black,  with  a  long,  springside 
boot.  The  bony  hands  hung  down  in  their  peculiar  fashion  from 
her  elbows.  A  large  cameo  brooch  adorned  the  flat  chest.  A 
scanty  velvet  patch  of  cap  failed  to  conceal  the  thin  hair  sleekly 
parted  in  the  middle  over  the  high  narrow  temples.  The  long 
dark  face  with  its  black,  set  eyes,  was  almost  without  expression, 
except  that  of  a  placid  severity.  She  gazed  down  at  me,  as  I 
up  at  her,  steadily,  silently. 

"So  this  is  the  young  lady,"  she  mused  at  last,  as  if  addressing 
a  hidden  and  distant  listener.  "I  hope  you  are  not  over-fatigued 
by  your  journey,  miss.     Please  to  step  in." 

To  my  ear,  Mrs  Bowater's  was  what  I  should  describe  as 
a  low,  roaring  voice,  like  falling  water  out  of  a  black  cloven 
rock  in  a  hill-side;  but  what  a  balm  was  its  sound  in  my  ear, 
and  how  solacing  this  dignified  address  to  jaded  nerves  still 
smarting  a  little  after  my  victory  on  the  London,  Chatham,  and 
Dover  Railway.  Making  my  way  around  a  grandfather's  clock 
that  ticked  hollowly  beside  the  door,  I  followed  her  into  a 
room  on  the  left  of  the  passage,  from  either  wall  of  which  a 
74 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pair  of  enormous  antlers  threatened  each  other  under  the  dis- 
coloured ceiling.  For  a  moment  the  glare  within  and  the  vista 
of  furniture  legs  confused  my  eyes.  But  Mrs  Bowater  came 
to  my  rescue. 

"Food  was  never  mentioned,"  she  remarked  reflectively,  "being 
as  I  see  nothing  to  be  considered  except  as  food  so-called. 
But  you  will  find  everything  clean  and  comfortable;  and  1 
am  sure,  miss,  what  with  your  sad  bereavements  and  all,  as 
I  have  heard  from  Mr  Pellew,  I  hope  it  will  be  a  home  to  you. 
There  being  nothing  else  as  I  suppose  that  we  may  expect." 

My  mind  ran  about  in  a  hasty  attempt  to  explore  these 
sentiments.  They  soothed  away  many  misgivings,  though  it 
was  clear  that  Mrs  Bowater's  lodger  was  even  less  in  dimensions 
than  Mrs  Howater  had  supposed.  Clean:  after  so  many  months 
of  Mrs  Sheppey's  habits,  it  was  this  word  that  sang  in  my  head. 
Wood,  glass,  metal  flattered  the  light  of  gas  and  coal,  and  for 
the  first  time  I  heard  my  own  voice  float  up  into  my  new  "apart- 
ment":  "It  looks  very  comfortable,  thank  you,  Mrs  Bowater; 
and  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  be  happy  in  my  new  abode."  There 
w.is  nothing  intentionally  affected  in  this  formal  little  speech. 

"Which  being  so,"  replied  Mrs  Bowater,  "there  seems  to  be 
trouble  with  the  cabman,  and  the  day's  drawing  in,  perhaps  you 
will  take  a  seat  by  the  fire." 

A  stool  nicely  to  my  height  stood  by  the  steel  fender,  the 
flames  played  in  the  chimney;  and  for  a  moment  I  was  left 
alone.  "Thank  God,"  said  I,  and  took  off  my  hat,  and  pushed 
back  my  hair.  .  .  .  Alone.  Only  for  a  moment,  though.  Its 
mistress  gone,  as  fine  a  black  cat  as  ever  I  have  seen  appeared 
in  the  doorway  and  stood,  green-eyed,  regarding  me.  To  judge 
from  its  countenance,  this  must  have  been  a  remarkable  experience. 

I  cried  seductively,  "Puss." 

But  with  a  blink  of  one  eye  and  a  shake  of  its  forepaw,  as 
if  inadvertently  it  had  trodden  in  water,  it  turned  itself  about 
again  and  disappeared.  In  spite  of  all  my  cajoleries,  Henry  and 
I  were  never  to  be  friends. 

Whatever  Pollie's  trouble  with  the  cabman  may  have  been, 
Mrs  Bowater  made  short  work  of  it.  Pollie  was  shown  to  the 
room  in  which  she  was  to  sleep  that  night.  I  took  off  my  bodice 
and  bathed  face,  hands,  and  arms  to  the  elbow   in  the  shallow 

75 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bowl  Mrs  Bowater  had  provided  for  me.  And  soon,  wonderfully 
refreshed  and  talkative,  Pollie  and  I  were  seated  over  the  last 
meal  we  were  to  share  together  for  many  a  long  day. 

There  were  snippets  of  bread  and  butter  for  me,  a  little 
omelette,  two  sizes  too  large,  a  sugared  cherry  or  two  sprinkled 
with  "hundreds  and  thousands,"  and  a  gay  little  bumper  of  milk 
gilded  with  the  enwreathed  letters,  "A  Present  from  Dover." 
Alack-a-day  for  that  omelette !  I  must  have  kept  a  whole  family 
of  bantams  steadily  engaged  for  weeks  together.  But  I  was 
often  at  my  wits'  end  to  dispose  of  their  produce.  Fortunately 
Mrs  Bowater  kept  merry  fires  burning  in  the  evening — "Ladies 
of  some  sizes  can't  warm  the  air  as  much  as  most,"  as  she  put 
it.  So  at  some  little  risk  to  myself  among  the  steel  fire-irons, 
the  boiled  became  the  roast.  At  last  I  made  a  clean  breast 
of  my  horror  of  eggs,  and  since  by  that  time  my  landlady  and 
I  were  the  best  of  friends,  no  harm  came  of  it.  She  merely 
bestowed  on  me  a  grim  smile  of  unadulterated  amusement,  and 
the  bantams  patronized  some  less  fastidious  stomach. 

My  landlady  was  a  heavy  thinker,  and  not  a  copious — though 
a  leisurely — talker.  Minutes  would  pass,  while  with  dish  or 
duster  in  hand  she  pondered  a  speech ;  then  perhaps  her  long 
thin  lips  would  only  shut  a  little  tighter,  or  a  slow,  convulsive 
rub  of  her  lean  forefinger  along  the  side  of  her  nose  would 
indicate  the  upshot.  But  I  soon  learned  to  interpret  these 
mute  signs.  She  was  a  woman  who  disapproved  of  most  things, 
for  excellent,  if  nebulous,  reasons;  and  her  silences  were  due 
not  to  the  fact  that  she  had  nothing  to  say,  but  too  much. 

Pollie  and  I  talked  long  and  earnestly  that  first  evening 
at  Beechwood.  She  promised  to  write  to  me,  to  send  me  all 
the  gossip  of  the  village,  and  to  come  and  see  me  when  she  could. 
The  next  morning,  after  a  sorrowful  breakfast,  we  parted. 
Standing  on  the  table  in  the  parlour  window,  with  eyes  a  little 
wilder  than  usual,  I  watched  her  pass  out  of  sight.  A  last 
wave  of  her  handkerchief,  and  the  plump-cheeked,  fair-skinned 
face  was  gone.  The  strangeness  and  solitude  of  my  situation 
flooded  over  me. 

For  a  few  days,  strive  as  she  might,  Mrs  Bowater's  lodger 
moped.  It  was  not  merely  that  she  had  become  more  helpless, 
but  of  far  less  importance.  This  may,  in  part,  be  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that,  having  been  accustomed  at  Lyndsey  to 
76 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

live  at  the  top  of  a  high  house  and  to  look  d<nvn  on  the  world, 
when  I  found  myself  foot  to  foot  with  it,  so  to  speak,  on  Beech- 
wood  Hill,  it  alarmingly  intensified  the  sense  of  my  small  stature 
Use  and  habit  however.  The  relative  merits  of  myself  and 
of  the  passing  scene  gradually  readjusted  themselves  with  a  proper 
respect  for  the  former.  Soon,  too,  as  if  from  heaven,  the  packing- 
case  containing  my  furniture  arrived.  Mrs  Bowater  shared  a 
whole  morning  over  its  unpacking,  ever  and  again  standing  in 
engrossed  consideration  of  some  of  my  minute  treasures,  and,  quite 
unaware  of  it,  heaving  a  great  sigh.  But  how  to  arrange 
them  there  in  a  room  already  over-occupied? 


77 


Chapter    Nine 


A  CARPENTER  of  the  name  of  Bates  was  called  in,  so  distant 
a  relative  of  Mrs  Bowater's  apparently  that  she  never  by 
nod,  word,  or  look  acknowledged  the  bond.  Mr  Bates  held 
my  landlady  in  almost  speechless  respect.  "A  woman  in  a 
thousand,"  he  repeatedly  assured  me,  when  we  were  grown  a  little 
accustomed  to  one  another;  "a  woman  in  ten  thousand.  And  if 
things  hadn't  been  what  they  was,  you  may  understand,  they 
might  have  turned  out  different.  Ah,  miss,  there's  one  looking 
down  on  us  could  tell  a  tale."  I  looked  up  past  his  oblong  head 
at  the  ceiling,  but  only  a  few  flies  were  angling  round  the 
chandelier. 

Mrs  Bowater's  compliments  were  less  indirect.  "That  Bates," 
she  would  say,  surveying  his  day's  handiwork  after  he  was  gone, 
"is  all  thumbs." 

He  was  certainly  rather  snail-like  in  his  movements,  and  spent 
most  of  his  time  slowly  rubbing  his  hands  on  the  stiff  apron 
that  encased  him.  But  I  minded  his  thumbs  far  less  than  his 
gluepot. 

Many  years  have  passed,  yet  at  the  very  whisper  of  his  name, 
that  inexpressible  odour  clouds  up  into  my  nose.  It  now  occurs 
to  me  for  the  first  time  that  he  never  sent  in  his  bill.  Either 
his  memory  failed  him,  or  he  carpentered  for  love.  Level  with 
the  wide  table  in  the  window  recess,  strewn  over  with  my  small 
Persian  mats,  whereon  I  sat,  sewed,  read,  and  took  my  meals, 
Mr  Bates  constructed  a  broad  shelf,  curtained  off  on  three 
sides  from  the  rest  of  the  room.  On  this  wooden  stage  stood  my 
four-poster,  wardrobe,  and  other  belongings.  It  was  my  bed- 
chamber. From  table  to  floor  he  made  a  staircase,  so  that 
I  could  easily  descend  and  roam  the  room  at  large.  The  latter 
would  have  been  more  commodious  if  I  could  have  persuaded 
Mrs  Bowater  to  empty  it  a  little.  If  I  had  kept  on  looking  at 
the  things  in  it  I  am  sure  I  should  have  gone  mad.  Even  tact 
78 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

was  unavailing.  If  only  there  had  been  the  merest  tinge  of  a 
Cromwell  in  my  character,  the  baubles  that  would  have  heen 
removed ! 

There  were  two  simpering  plaster  figures — a  Shepherd  and 
Shepherdess— nearly  half  my  height  on  the  chimney-piece,  whom 
I  particularly  detested;  also  an  enlarged  photograph  in  a  dis- 
coloured frame  on  the  wall — that  of  a  thick-necked,  formidable 
man,  with  a  bush  of  whisker  on  either  cheek,  and  a  high, 
quarrelsome  stare.  He  made  me  feel  intensely  self-conscious. 
It  was  like  a  wolf  looking  all  day  into  a  sheep-fold.  So 
when  1  had  my  meals.  1  invariably  turned  my  hack  on  his  portrait. 

I  went  early  to  bed.  I  hit  now  that  the  autumnal  dusks 
were  shortening,  an  hour  or  two  of  artificial  light  was  necessary. 
The  tlare  of  the  gas  dazzled  and  stupefied  me,  and  gave  me  a 
kind  of  hunted  feeling;  so  Mrs  Bowater  procured  for  me  a  couple 
of  fine  little  glass  candlesticks.  Jn  hed  I  sometimes  burned  a 
wax-light  in  a  saucer,  a  companionable  thing  for  night-thoughts 
in  a  strange  place.  Often  enough  I  sat  through  the  evening 
with  no  other  illumination  than  that  of  the  smouldering  coals, 
so  that  I  could  see  out  of  the  window.  It  was  an  endless  source 
ol  amusement  to  withdraw  the  muslin  curtains,  gaze  out  over 
the  darkened  fields  beyond  the  roadway,  and  let  my  day-dreams 
wander  at  will. 

At  nine  o'clock  Mrs  Bowater  would  bring  me  my  supper — some 
fragments  of  rusk,  or  of  bread,  and  milk.  My  food  was  her 
constant  anxiety.  The  difficulty,  as  she  explained,  was  to  supply 
me  with  little  enough  to  eat — at  least  of  cooked  food:  "It 
dries  up  in  the  winking  of  an  eye."  So  her  cat,  I  lenry,  fared  more 
sumptuously  than  ever,  though  the  jealous  creature  continued  to 
reject  all  my  advances,  and  as  far  as  pos>ihle  ignored  my  exis- 
tence. "Simple  victuals,  by  all  means,  miss,"  Mrs  Howater  would 
admit.  "But  if  it  don't  enjoy,  the  inside  languishes;  and  you 
are  not  yet  of  an  age  that  can  fall  hack  on  skin  and  bone." 

The  question  of  food  presently  introduced  that  of  money. 
She  insisted  on  reducing  her  charges  to  twenty  shillings  a  week. 
"There's  the  lodging,  and  there's  the  hoard,  tin-  last  being  as 
you  might  say  all  hut  unmentionable;  and  honesty  the  best 
policy  though  I  have  never  tried  the  reverse."  So.  in  spite  of 
all  my  protestations,  it  was  agreed.     And   1  thus  found  myself 

79 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

mistress  of  a  round  fifty-eight  pounds  a  year  over  and  above 
what  I  paid  to  Mrs  Bowater.  Messrs  Harris,  Harris,  and  Harris 
were  punctual  as  quarter-day :  and  so  was  I.  I  "at  once"  paid 
over  to  my  landlady  £13  and  whatever  other  sum  was  needful. 
The  "charity"  my  godmother  had  recommended  began,  and, 
alas,  remained  at  home.  I  stowed  the  rest  under  lock  and 
key  in  one  of  my  grandfather's  boxes  which  I  kept  under  my 
bed.  This  was  an  imprudent  habit,  perhaps.  Mrs  Bowater 
advocated  the  Penny  Bank.  But  the  thought  of  my  money 
being  so  handy  and  palpable  reassured  me.  I  would  count  it 
over  in  my  mind,  as  if  it  were  a  means  to  salvation;  and  became, 
in  consequence,   near   and  parsimonious. 

Occasionally  when  she  had  "business"  to  transact,  Mrs  Bowater 
would  be  off  to  London.  There  she  would  purchase  for  me  any 
little  trifle  required  for  the  replenishment  of  my  wardrobe. 
Needing  so  little,  I  could  afford  the  finest  materials ;  my  sovereign 
was  worth  at  least  sixty  shillings.  Rather  than  "fine,"  Mrs 
Bowater  preferred  things  "good";  and  for  this  "goodness,"  I 
must  confess,  she  sometimes  made  rather  alarming  sacrifices  of 
appearance.  Still,  I  was  already  possessed  of  a  serviceable  stock 
of  clothes,  and  by  aid  of  one  of  my  dear  mother's  last  presents 
to  me,  a  shiny  Swiss  miniature  workbox  with  an  inlaid  picture 
of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  on  the  lid,  I  soon  became  a  passable 
needlewoman. 

I  love  bright,  pure  colours,  and,  my  sweeping  and  dusting 
and  bedmaking  over,  and  my  external  mourning  for  my  father 
at  an  end,  a  remarkably  festive  figure  would  confront  me  in  my 
cheval  glass  of  an  afternoon.  The  hours  I  spent  in  dressing  my 
hair  and  matching  this  bit  of  colour  with  that.  I  would  talk- 
to  myself  in  the  glass,  too,  for  company's  sake,  and  make  believe 
I  was  a  dozen  different  characters.  I  was  young.  I  pined  for 
life  and  companionship,  and  having  only  my  own — for  Mrs 
Bowater  was  rather  a  faithful  feature  of  the  landscape  than 
a  fellow  being— I  made  as  much,  and  as  many,  of  myself  as 
possible. 

Another  question  that  deeply  engaged  my  landlady  was  my 
health.  She  mistrusted  open  windows,  but  strongly  recommended 
"air."  What  insidious  maladies  she  spied  around  me!  Indeed 
that  September  was  unusually  hot.  I  sat  on  my  table  in  the 
80 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

window  like  a  cricket  in  an  oven,  sorely  missing  my  high  open 
balcony,  the  garden,  and  the  stream.  Once  and  again  Mrs 
Bowater  would  take  me  for  a  little  walk  after  sunset.  Discretion 
to  her  was  much  the  better  part  of  valour;  nor  had  I  quite 
recovered  from  my  experiences  in  the  train.  But  such  walks 
— though  solitary  enough  at  that  hour  of  the  day — were  straggly 
and  irksome.  Pollie's  arm  had  been  a  kind  of  second  nature 
to  me;  but  Mrs  Bowater,  I  think,  had  almost  as  fastidious 
a  disinclination  to  carrying  me  as  I  have  to  being  carried.  I 
languished  for  liberty.  Being  a  light  sleeper,  I  would  often 
awake  at  daybreak  and  the  first  call  of  the  birds.  Then  the 
hill — which  led  to  Tyddlesdon  End  and  Love  (or  Loose)  Lane 
— was  deserted.  Thought  of  the  beyond  haunted  me  like  a 
passion.  At  a  convenient  moment  I  intimated  to  Mrs  Bowater 
how  secure  was  the  street  at  this  early  hour,  how  fresh  the 
meadows,  and  how  thirsty  for  independent  outings  her  lodger. 
"Besides,  Mrs  Bowater,  I  am  not  a  child,  and  who  could  see 
me?" 

After  anxious  and  arduous  discussion,  Mr  Bates  was  once 
more  consulted.  He  wrapped  himself  in  a  veritable  blanket 
of  reflection,  and  all  but  became  unconscious  before  he  proposed 
a  most  ingenious  device.  With  Mrs  Bowater's  consent,  she  being 
her  own  landlady  and  amused  at  the  idea,  he  cut  out  of  one  of 
the  lower  panels  of  her  parlour  door  a  round-headed  opening 
just  of  an  easy  size  to  suit  me.  In  this  aperture  he  hung  a 
delicious  little  door  that  precisely  fitted  it.  So  also  with  the 
door  into  the  street — to  which  he  added  a  Brahmah  lock.  By 
cementing  a  small  square  stone  into  the  corner  of  each  of  the 
steps  down  from  the  porch,  he  eased  that  little  difficulty.  May 
Heaven  bless  Mr  Bates!  With  his  key  round  my  neck,  stoop 
once,  stoop  twice,  a  scamper  down  his  steps,  and  I  was  free 
— as  completely  mistress  of  my  goings-out  and  of  my  comings-in 
as  every  self-respecting  person  should  be. 

"That's  what  my  father  would  have  called  a  good  job,  Mr 
Bates,"  said  I  cordially. 

He  looked  yearningly  at  me,  as  if  about  to  impart  a  profound 
secret;  but  thought  better  of  it.  "Well,  miss,  what  I  say  is, 
a  job's  a  job;  and  if  it  is  a  job,  it's  a  job  that  should  be  made 
a  job  of." 

81 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

As  I  dot  the  i's  and  cross  the  t's  of  this  manuscript,  I  often 
think — a  little  ruefully — of  Mr  Bates. 

As  soon  as  daybreak  was  piercing  into  my  region  of  the  sky, 
and  before  Mrs  Bowater  or  the  rest  of  the  world  was  stirring, 
I  would  rise,  make  my  candlelit  toilet,  and  hasten  out  into  the 
forsaken  sweet  of  the  morning.  If  it  broke  wet  or  windy,  I 
could  turn  over  and  go  to  sleep  again.  A  few  hundred  yards 
up  the  hill,  the  road  turned  off,  as  I  have  said,  towards  Tyddlesdon 
End  and  Loose  Lane — very  stony  and  steep.  On  the  left,  and 
before  the  fork,  a  wicket  gate  led  into  the  woods  and  the  park 
of  empty  "Wanderslore."  To  the  verge  of  these  deserted  woods 
made  a  comfortable  walk  for  me. 

If,  as  might  happen,  any  other  wayfarer  was  early  abroad, 
I  could  conceal  myself  in  the  tussocks  of  grass  and  bushes  that 
bordered  the  path.  In  my  thick  veil,  with  my  stout  green 
parasol  and  inconspicuous  shawl,  I  made  a  queer  and  surprising 
figure  no  doubt.  Indeed,  from  what  I  have  heard,  the  ill  fame 
of  Wanderslore  acquired  a  still  more  piquant  flavour  in  the 
town  by  reports  that  elf-folk  had  been  descried  on  its  outskirts. 
But  if  I  sometimes  skipped  and  capered  in  these  early  outings, 
it  was  for  exercise  as  well  as  suppressed  high  spirits.  To  be 
prepared,  too,  for  the  want  of  such  facilities  in  the  future,  I  had 
the  foresight  to  accustom  myself  to  Mrs  Bowater's  steep  steps 
as  well  as  to  my  cemented-in  "Bateses,"  as  I  called  them.  My 
only  difficulty  was  to  decide  whether  to  practice  on  them  when 
I  was  fresh  at  the  outset  of  my  walk,  or  fatigued  at  the  end  of  it. 
Naturally  people  grow  "peculiar"  when  much  alone:  self  plays 
with  self,  and  the  mimicry  fades. 

These  little  expeditions,  of  course,  had  their  spice  of  danger, 
and  it  made  them  the  more  agreeable.  A  strange  dog  might 
give  me  a  fright.  There  was  an  old  vixen  which  once  or  twice 
exchanged  glances  with  me  at  a  distance.  But  with  my  parasol 
I  was  a  match  for  most  of  the  creatures  which  humanity  has 
left  unslaughtered.  My  sudden  appearance  might  startle  or  per- 
plex them.  But  if  few  were  curious,  fewer  far  were  unfriendly. 
Boys  I  feared  most.  A  hulking  booby  once  stoned  me  through 
the  grass,  but  fortunately  he  was  both  a  coward  and  a  poor 
marksman.  Until  winter  came,  I  doubt  if  a  single  sunshine 
morning  was  wasted.     Many  a  rainy  one,  too,  found  me  splash- 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ing  along,  though  then  I  must  he  a  careful  walker  to  avoid  a 
sousing. 

The  birds  renewed  their  autumn  song,  the  last  flowers  were 
blossoming.  Concealed  by  scattered  tufts  of  bracken  where 
an  enormous  beech  forked  its  roots  and  cast  a  golden  light 
from  its  withering  leaves,  I  would  spend  many  a  solitary  hour. 
Above  the  eastern  tree-tops  my  Kent  stretched  into  the  distance 
beneath  the  early  skies.  Far  to  my  left  and  a  little  behind  me 
rose  the  chimneys  of  gloomy  Wanderslore.  Breathing  in  the 
gentle  air,  the  dreamer  within  would  stray  at  will.  There  I  kept 
the  anniversary  of  my  mother's  birthday;  twined  a  wreath  for 
her  of  ivy-flowers  and  winter  green ;  and  hid  it  secretly  in  a 
forsaken  blackbird's  nest  in  the  woods. 

Still  I  longed  for  my  old  home  again.  Mrs  Bowater's  was 
a  stuffy  and  meagre  little  house,  and  when  meals  were  in  prepara- 
tion, none  too  sweet  to  the  nose.  Especially  low  I  felt,  when 
a  scrawling  letter  was  now  and  then  delivered  by  the  post- 
man from  Pollie.  Her  spelling  and  grammar  intensified  my 
homesickness.  Miss  Fenne,  too,  had  not  forgotten  me.  I  pored 
over  her  spidery  epistles  till  my  head  ached.  Why,  if  I  had 
been  so  rash  and  undutiful,  was  she  so  uneasy?  Even  the  texts 
she  chose  had  a  parched  look.  The  thought  of  her  spectacling 
my  minute  handwriting  and  examining  the  proof  that  I  was 
still  a  child  of  wrath,  gave  my  pride  a  silly  qualm.  So  Mrs 
Bowater  came  to  my  rescue,  and  between  us  we  concocted  replies 
to  her  which,  I  am  afraid,  were  not  more  intelligible  for  a 
tendency  on  my  landlady's  part  to  express  my  sentiments  in  the 
third  person. 

This  little  service  set  her  thinking  of  Sunday  and  church. 
She  was  not,  she  told  me,  "what  you  might  call  a  religious 
woman,"  having  been  compelled  "to  keep  her  head  up  in  the 
world,  and  all  not  being  gold  that  glitters."  She  was  none  the 
less  a  regular  attendant  at  St  Peter's — a  church  a  mile  or  so 
away  in  the  valley,  whose  five  bells  of  a  Sabbath  evening  never 
failed  to  recall  my  thoughts  to  Lyndsey  and  to  dip  me  into  the 
waters  of  melancholy.  I  loved  their  mellow  clanging  in  the 
lap  of  the  wind,  yet  it  was  rather  doleful  to  be  left  alone  with 
my  candles,  and  only  Henry  sullenly  squatting  in  the  passage 
awaiting  his  mistress's  return. 

83 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Not  that  you  need  making  any  better,  miss,"  Mrs  Bovvater 
assured  me.  "Even  a  buttercup — or  a  retriever  dog,  for  that 
matter — being  no  fuller  than  it  can  hold  of  what  it  is,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking.  But  there's  the  next  world  to  be  accounted 
for,  and  hopes  of  reunion  on  another  shore,  where,  so  I  under- 
stand, mere  size,  body  or  station,  will  not  be  noticeable  in  the 
sight  of  the  Lamb.  Not  that  I  hold  with  the  notion  that  only 
the  good  so-called  will  be  there." 

This  speech,  I  must  confess,  made  me  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable. 

"Wherever  I  go,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  replied  hastily,  "I  shall 
not  be  happy  unless  you  are  there." 

"D.  V.,"  said  Mrs  Bowater,  grimly,  "I  will." 

Still,  I  remained  unconverted  to  St  Peter's.  Why,  I  hardly 
know :  perhaps  it  was  her  reference  to  its  pew  rents,  or  her  de- 
scription of  the  vicar's  daughters  (who  were  now  nursing  their 
father  at  Tunbridge  Wells),  or  maybe  even  it  was  a  stare  from  her 
husband  which  I  happened  at  that  precise  moment  to  intercept 
from  the  wall.  Possibly  if  I  myself  had  taken  a  "sitting,"  this 
aura  of  formality  would  have  faded  away.  Mrs  Bowater  was  a 
little  reassured,  however,  to  hear  that  my  father  and  mother,  in 
spite  of  Miss  Fenne,  had  seldom  taken  me  to  church.  They  had 
concluded  that  my  absence  was  best  both  for  me  and  for  the  con- 
gregation. And  I  told  her  of  our  little  evening  services  in  the 
drawing-room,  with  Mrs  Ballard,  the  parlourmaid,  Pollie,  and  the 
Boy  on  the  sofa,  just  as  it  happened  to  be  their  respective  "Sun- 
days in." 

This  set  her  mind  at  rest.  Turn  and  turn  about,  on  one  Sun- 
day evening  she  went  to  St  Peter's  and  brought  back  with  her  the 
text  and  crucial  fragments  of  Mr  Crimble's  sermon,  and  on  the 
next  we  read  the  lessons  together  and  sang  a  hymn.  Once,  in- 
deed, I  embarked  upon  a  solo,  "As  pants  the  hart,"  one  of  my 
mother's  favourite  airs.  But  I  got  a  little  shaky  at  "O  for  the 
wings,"  and  there  was  no  rambling,  rumbling  chorus  from  my 
father.  But  Sunday  was  not  my  favourite  day  on  Beechwood 
Hill.  Mrs  Bowater  looked  a  little  formal  with  stiff  white  "frill- 
ing" round  her  neck.  She  reminded  me  of  a  leg  of  mutton.  To 
judge  from  the  gloom  and  absentmindedness  into  which  they 
sometimes  plunged  her,  quotations  from  Mr  Crimble  could  be 
84 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

double-edged.     My  real  joy  was  to  hear  her  views  on  the  fashions 
and  manners  of  her  fellow-worshippers. 

Well,  so  the  months  went  by.  Winter  came  with  its  mists  and 
rain^  and  frosts,  and  a  fire  in  the  polished  grate  was  no  longer  an 
evening  luxury  but  a  daily  nerd.  As  often  as  possible  I  went  out 
walking.  When  the  weather  was  too  inclement,  1  danced  for  an 
hour  or  so,  for  joy  and  exercise,  and  went  swimming  on  a  chair. 
I  would  entertain  myself  also  in  watching  through  the  muslin 
curtains  the  few  passers-by  ;  sorting  out  their  gaits,  and  noses, 
and  clothes,  and  acquaintances,  and  guessing  their  characters,  occu- 
pations, and  circumstances.  Certain  little  looks  and  movements 
led  me  to  suppose  that,  even  though  I  was  perfectly  concealed,  the 
more  sensitive  among  them  were  vaguely  uneasy  under  this  secret 
scutiny.  In  such  cases  (though  very  reluctantly)  I  always  drew 
my  eyes  away:  first  because  I  did  not  like  the  thought  of  encroach- 
ing on  their  privacy,  and  next,  because  I  was  afraid  their  un- 
easiness might  prevent  them  coming  again.  But  this  microscopic 
examination  of  mankind  must  cease  with  dusk,  and  the  candle- 
hours  passed  rather  heavily  at  times.  The  few  books  I  had 
brought  away  from  Lyndsey  were  mine  now  nearly  by  heart.  So 
my  eye  would  often  wander  up  to  a  small  bookcase  that  hung  out 
of  reach  on  the  other  side  of  the  chimney-piece. 


85 


Chapter  Ten 


ONE  supper-time  I  ventured  to  ask  Mrs  Bowater  if  she  would 
hand  me  down  a  tall,  thin,  dark-green  volume,  whose  ap- 
pearance had  particularly  taken  my  fancy.  A  simple 
enough  request,  but  surprisingly  received.  She  stiffened  all  over 
and  eyed  the  bookcase  with  a  singular  intensity.  "The  books 
there,"  she  said,  "are  what  they  call  the  dead  past  burying  its 
dead." 

Spoon  in  hand,  I  paused,  looking  now  at  Mrs  Bowater  and 
now  at  the  coveted  book.  "Mr  Bowater,"  she  added  from  deep 
down  in  herself,  "followed  the  sea."  This  was,  in  fact,  Mr 
Bowater's  debut  in  our  conversation,  and  her  remark,  uttered  in 
so  hollow  yet  poignant  a  tone,  produced  a  romantic  expectancy 
in  my  mind. 

"Is "  I  managed  to  whisper  at  last :     "I  hope  Mr  Bowater 

isn't  dead?" 

Mrs  Bowater's  eyes  were  like  lead  in  her  long,  dark-skinned 
face.  She  opened  her  mouth,  her  gaze  travelled  slowly  until,  as 
I  realized,  it  had  fixed  itself  on  the  large  yellowing  photograph  be- 
hind my  back. 

"Dead,    no";   she   echoed   sepulchrally.     "Worse   than." 

By  which  I  understood  that,  far  from  being  dead,  Mr  Bowater 
was  still  actively  alive.  And  yet,  apparently,  not  much  the  happier 
for  that.  Instantaneously  I  caught  sight  of  a  rocky,  storm- 
strewn  shore,  such  as  I  had  seen  in  my  Robinson  Crusoe,  and 
then-  Mr   Iiowater,  still  "following'  the  sea." 

"Never,  never,"  continued  Mrs  Bowater  in  her  Bible  voice, 
"never  to  darken  these  doors  again!"  I  stole  an  anxious  glance 
over  my  shoulder.  There  was  such  a  brassy  boldness  in  the  re- 
sponsive stare  that  I  was  compelled  to  shut  my  eyes. 

But  Mrs  Bowater  had  caught  my  expression.  "He  was,  as 
some  would  say,"  she  explained  with  gloomy  pride,  "a  handsome 
man.  Do  handsome  he  did  never.  But  there,  miss,  things  being 
as  they  must  be,  and  you  in  the  green  of  your  youth — though 
86 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

hearing  the  worst  may  he  a  wholesome  physic  if  taken  with  care, 
as  I  have  told  Fanny  many  a  time.  .  .  ."  She  paused  to  breathe. 

"What  I  was  saying  is,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  your  looking  at 
the  hook  if  that's  all  there's  to  it."  With  that  she  withdrew  the 
dry-looking  volume  from  the  shelf  and  laid  it  on  the  table  beside 
my  chair. 

I  got  down,  opened  it  in  the  middle  (as  my  father  had  taught  me, 
in  order  to  spare  the  binding),  opened  it  on  a  page  inky  black  as 
night  all  over,  but  starred  with  a  design  as  familiar  to  me  as  the 
lines  on  the  palm  of  my  hand. 

"But  oh!  Mr>  Howater!"  I  cried,  all  in  a  breath,  running 
across,  dragging  back  the  curtain,  and  pointing  out  into  the  night; 
"look,  look,  it's  there!     It's  Orion!" 

There,  indeed,  in  the  heavens  beyond  my  window,  straddling 
the  dark,  star  for  star  the  same  as  those  in  the  book,  stood  the 
Giant,  shaking  his  wondrous  fires  upon  the  air.  Even  Mrs 
Bowater  was  moved  by  my  enthusiasm.  She  came  to  the  table, 
compared  at  my  direction  chart  with  sky,  and  was  compelled 
rather  grudgingly  to  admit  that  her  husband's  book  was  at  least 
true  to  the  facts.  Stooping  low,  I  read  out  a  brief  passage.  She 
listened.  And  it  seemed  a  look  of  girlhood  came  into  the 
shadowy  face  uplifted  towards  the  window.  So  the  stars  came 
into  my  life,  and  faithful  friends  they  have  remained  to  this  day. 

Mrs  Bowater's  little  house  being  towards  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
with  sunrise  a  little  to  the  left  across  the  meadows,  my  window 
commanded  about  three-fifths  of  the  southern  and  eastern  skies. 
By  day  I  would  kneel  down  and  study  for  hours  the  charts,  and 
thus  be  prepared  for  the  dark.  Night  after  night,  when  the 
weather  was  fair,  or  the  windy  clouch  majde  mock  of  man's  celes- 
tial patternings,  I  would  sit  in  the  glow  of  the  firelight  and  sum- 
mon these  magic  shiners  each  by  name — Bellatrix.  huge  Betel- 
ge,use,  Aldebaran,  and  the  rest.  I  would  look  at  one,  and,  while 
so  doing,  watch  another.  This  not  only  isolated  the  smaller  star-. 
but  gradually  I  became  aware  that  they  were  one  and  all  furtively 
signalling  to  n\c!  About  a  fortnight  later  my  old  Lyndsey  friend, 
the  Dogstar,  topped  the  horizon  fringe  of  woodland.  1  heard  my- 
self shout  at  him  tacross  the  world.  His  sudden  molten  bursts  of 
crimson  betwixt  his  emeralds  and  sapphires  filled  me  with  an 
almost  ridiculous  delight. 

87 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

By  the  middle  of  December  I  had  mastered  all  the  greater  stars 
in  my  region,  and  with  my  spyglass  a  few  even  of  the  Gammas 
and  Deltas.  But  much  of  the  zenith  and  all  the  north  was  closed 
to  me,  and — such  is  human  greed — I  began  to  pine  beyond  measure 
for  a  sight  of  Deneb,  Vega,  and  the  Chair.  This  desire  grew  un- 
endurable, and  led  me  into  a  piece  of  genuine  f  oolhardiness.  I  de- 
termined to  await  the  first  clear  still  night  and  then  to  sally  out  and 
make  my  way,  by  hook  or  crook,  up  to  my  beech-roots,  from  which 
I  should  be  able  to  command  a  fair  stretch  of  the  northern  heavens. 
A  quiet  spell  favoured  me. 

I  waited  until  Mrs  Bowater  had  gone  to  her  bedroom,  then 
muffled  myself  up  in  my  thickest  clothes  and  stole  out  into  the 
porch.  At  my  first  attempt,  one  glance  into  the  stooping  dark 
was  enough.  At  the  second,  a  furtive  sighing  breath  of  wind, 
as  I  breasted  the  hill,  suddenly  flapped  my  mantle  and  called  in 
my  ear.  I  turned  tail  and  fled.  But  never  faint  heart  won  fair 
constellation.     At  the  third  I  pressed  on. 

The  road  was  deserted.  No  earthly  light  showed  anywhere  ex- 
cept from  a  lamp-post  this  side  of  the  curve  of  the  hill.  I  frisked 
along,  listening  and  peering,  and  brimming  over  with  painful  de- 
light. The  dark  waned ;  and  my  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  thin 
starlight.  I  gained  the  woods  unharmed.  Rich  was  my  reward. 
There  and  then  I  begged  the  glimmering  Polestar  to  be  true  to  Mr 
Bowater.  Fear,  indeed,  if  in  a  friendly  humour,  is  enlivening 
company.  Instead  of  my  parasol  I  had  brought  out  a  curved 
foreign  knife  (in  a  sheath  at  least  five  inches  long)  which  I  had 
discovered  on  my  parlour  what-not. 

The  whisperings  of  space,  the  calls  of  indetectable  birds  in  the 
wastes  of  the  sky,  the  sudden  appearance  of  menacing  or  sinister 
shapes  which  vanished  or  melted  themselves  into  mere  stocks  or 
stones  as  I  drew  near — my  heart  gave  many  an  anguished  jump. 
But  quiet,  and  the  magnificence  of  night,  vanquished  all  folly  at 
last.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  Being  whom  one  may  call  Silence  was 
brooding  in  solitude  where  living  and  human  visitants  are  rare,  and 
that  in  his  company  a  harmless  spirit  may  be  at  peace.  Oblivious 
of  my  ungainly  knife,  yet  keeping  a  firm  arm  on  it,  self  seemed  to 
be  the  whole  scene  there,  and  my  body  being  so  small  I  was  perhaps 
less  a  disturber  than  were  most  intruders  of  that  solemn  repose. 

Why  I  kept  these  night-walks  secret,  I  cannot  say.  It  was  not 
apprehension  of  Mrs  Bowater.  She  would  have  questioned  my 
88 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

discretion,  but  would  not,  I  think,  have  attempted  to  dissuade  me 
from  them  against  my  will.  No.  It  may  be  that  every  true 
astronomer  is  a  miser  at  heart,  and  keeps  some  Lambda  or  Mu  or 
lost  nebula  his  eternal  friend,  named  with  his  name,  but  unre- 
corded on  any  chart.  For  my  part  I  hoarded  the  complete  north 
for  a  while. 

A  fright  I  got  one  night,  however,  kept  me  indoors  for  the  better 
part  of  a  week.  In  my  going  out  the  little  house  door  had  been 
carelessly  left  unlatched.  Algol  and  the  red  planet  Mars  had  been 
my  quarry  among  the  floating  woolpack  clouds.  The  wind  was 
lightly  blowing  from  the  north-west  after  the  calm.  I  drew  down 
my  veil  and  set  off  briskly  and  lightheartedly  for  home. 

The  sight  of  the  dark-looking  hole  in  the  door  quickly  sobered 
me  down.  All  was  quiet,  however,  but  on  entering  my  room,  there 
was  a  strangeness  in  the  air,  and  that  not  due  to  my  landlady's  for- 
lorn trumpetings  from  above.  Through  the  floating  vaporous  light 
I  trod  across  to  my  staircase  and  was  soon  in  bed.  Hardly  had 
my  eyes  closed  when  there  broke  out  of  the  gloom  around  me  a 
dismal,  appalling  cry.  I  soon  realized  that  the  creeping  horror 
this  caused  in  me  was  as  nothing  compared  with  that  of  the  poor 
I  least,  lured,  no  doubt,  into  the  house  by  Henry,  at  finding  itself 
beneath  a  strange  roof. 

"Puss,  puss,"  I  pleaded  shakenly ;  and  again  broke  out  that 
heart-sick  cry. 

Knife  in  hand,  I  descended  my  staircase  and  edging  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  baleful  globes  greenly  burning  beneath  a  mahog- 
any chair,  I  threw  open  both  doors  and  besought  my  unwelcome 
visitor  to  take  his  departure.  The  night  wind  came  fluttering ; 
there  was  the  blur  of  a  scuttering,  shapeless  form,  and  in  the  flash 
of  an  eye  I  was  sprawling  on  the  floor.  A  good  deal  shaken,  with 
a  nasty  scratch  on  my  thigh,  hut  otherwise  unharmed,  I  waved  my 
hand  after  the  fugitive  and  returned  to  bed. 

The  blood  soon  ceased  to  flow.  Not  daring  to  send  my  blood- 
stained nightgown  to  the  wash,  I  concealed  it  behind  my  dresses 
in  the  wardrobe,  and  the  next  fine  morning  carried  it  off  with  me 
and  buried  it  as  deeply  as  I  could  in  a  deserted  rabbit-burrow  in 
the  woods.  Such  is  an  evil  conscience  that,  first,  I  had  the  fancy 
that  during  my  digging  a  twig  had  inexplicably  snapped  in  the  un- 
dergrowth;  and  next,  for  "burnt  offering,"  I  made  Mrs  Bowatei 
the  present  of  an  oval  handglass  set  in  garnets  (one  of  my  grand- 

89 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

father's  gifts).  This  she  took  down  to  a  local  jeweller's  to  be 
mounted  with  a  pin,  and  wore  it  on  Sundays  in  place  of  her  usual 
cameo  depicting  the  Three  Graces  disporting  themselves  under  a 
Palm-tree  beside  a  Fountain. 

Meanwhile  I  had  heard  a  little  more  about  the  "Fanny"  whom 
Mrs  Bowater  had  mentioned.  My  landlady  was  indeed  a  slow 
confkler.  Fanny,  I  gathered,  had  a  post  as  mistress  at  a  school 
some  forty  miles  away.  She  taught  the  little  boys  "English." 
The  fleeting  Miss  Perry  returned  to  mind,  and  with  a  faint  dis- 
may I  heard  that  Fanny  would  soon  be  returning  home  for  the 
Christmas  holidays.  Mrs  Bowater's  allusions  to  her  were  the 
more  formidable  for  being  veiled.  I  dreaded  the  invasion. 
Would  she  not  come  "between  us"? 

Then  by  chance  I  found  hidden  in  my  star-book  the  photo- 
graph of  an  infant  in  arms  and  of  a  pensive,  ringleted  woman, 
who,  in  spite  of  this  morsel  in  her  lap,  seemed  in  her  gaze  out  of 
nowhere  to  be  vaguely  afraid.  On  the  back  was  scrawled  in 
pencil :  "F. :  six  weeks" — and  an  extremely  cross  six  weeks  "F." 
looked.  For  some  inexplicable  reason  I  pushed  back  this  lady's 
photograph  into  the  book,  and  said  nothing  about  it.  The  suspi- 
cion had  entered  my  mind  that  Fanny  was  only  a  daughter  by 
marriage.  I  sank  into  a  kind  of  twilight  reflection  at  this.  It 
seemed,  in  an  odd  fashion,  to  make  Mrs  Bowater  more  admirable, 
her  husband  more  formidable,  and  the  unknown  Fanny  more 
mysterious  and  enigmatical.  At  the  first  opportunity  I  crept  my 
way  to  the  subject  and  asked  my  landlady  if  she  could  show  me 
a  portrait  of  her  daughter. 

The  photograph  she  produced  from  upstairs  had  in  fading  al- 
most become  a  caricature.  It  had  both  blackened  and  greyed. 
It  depicted  herself  many  years  younger  but  hardly  less  grim  in 
appearance  in  full  flounced  skirts,  Fanny  as  a  child  of  about  five 
or  six  standing  at  her  knee,  and  Mr  Bowater  leaning  with  singu- 
lar amenity  behind  her  richly-carved  chair,  the  fingers  of  his  left 
hand  resting  disposedly  on  her  right  shoulder.  I  looked  anx- 
iously at  the  child.  It  was  certainly  crosspatch  "F.",  and  a  far 
from  prepossessing  little  creature  with  that  fixed,  level  gaze.  Mr 
Bowater,  on  the  other  hand,  had  not  yet  adopted  the  wild  and 
rigid  stare  which  dominated  the  small  parlour. 

Mrs  Bowater  surveyed  the  group  with  a  lackadaisical  detach- 
ment. "Fractious! — you  can  see  the  tears  on  her  cheeks  for  all 
90 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

what  the  young  man  could  do  with  his  woolly  lamb  and  grimaces. 
It  was  the  heyday." 

What  was  the  heyday,  I  wondered.  "Was  Mr  Bowater — at- 
tached to  her?"  seemed  a  less  intrusive  question. 

"Doted,"  she  replied,  polishing  the  glass  with  her  apron.  "But 
not   to  much  purpose— with  an  eye  for  every  petticoat." 

This  seemed  a  difficult  conversation  to  maintain.  "Don't  you 
think,  Mrs  Bowater,"  1  returned  zealously,  "there  is  just  the 
faintest  tinge  of  Mr  Bowater  in  the  chin?  1  don't,"  I  added  can- 
didly, "see  the  faintest  glimpse  of  you." 

Mrs  I'm twater  merely  tightened  her  lips. 

"And  is  she  like  that  now?"  I  asked  presently. 

Mrs  Bowater  re-wrapped  frame  and  photograph  in  their  p 
of  newspaper.     "It's  looks,  miss,  that  are  my  constant  anxiety: 
and  you  may  he  thankful  for  being  as  you  might   say  preserved 
from  the  world.     What's  more,  the   father  will  out,   I   suppose, 
from  now  till  Day  of  Judgment." 

How  strangely  her  sentiments  at  times  resembled  my  god- 
mother's, and  yet  how  different  they  were  in  effect.  My  thoughts 
after  this  often  drifted  to  Mrs  Bowater's  early  married  life. 
And  so  peculiar  are  the  workings  of  the  mind  that  her  husband's 
star-chart,  his  sleek  appearance  as  a  young  father,  the  mysterious 
reference  to  the  petticoats,  awoke  in  me  an  almost  romantic  in- 
terest in  him.  To  such  a  degree  that  it  gradually  hecame  my 
custom  to  cast  his  portrait  a  satirical  little  bow  of  greeting  when 
I  emerged  from  my  bedroom  in  the  morning,  and  even  to  kiss  my 
hand  to  his  invisible  stare  when  I  retired  for  the  night.  To  all 
of  which  advances  he  made  no  reply. 

My  next  bout  of  star-gazing  presaged  disaster.  I  say  star-gaz- 
ing, for  it  is  true  that  I  stole  out  after  honest  folk  are  abed  only 
when  the  heavens  were  swept  and  garnished.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  my  real  tryst  was  with  another  Self.  Had  my  lot  been  dif- 
ferent, I  might  have  sought  that  self  in  Terra  del  Fuego  or  Malay, 
or  in  a  fine  marriage.  Mine  was  a  smaller  world.  Bo-peep  I 
would  play  with  shadow  and  dew-head.  And  if  Ulysses,  as  my 
father  had  read  me,  stopped  his  ears  against  the  Sirens,  I  contrari- 
wise unsealed  mine  to  the  ethereal  airs  of  that  hare  wintry  solitude. 

The  spectral  rattle  of  the  parched  beechleaves  on  the  saplings, 
the  faintest  whisper  in  the  skeleton  bracken  set  me  peeping,  peering, 

91 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tippeting;  and  the  Invisibles,  if  they  heeded  me,  merely  smiled  on 
me  from  their  grave,  all-seeing  eyes.  As  for  the  first  crystal 
sparking  of  frost,  I  remember  in  my  folly  I  sat  down  (bunched  up, 
fortunately,  in  honest  lamb's-wool)  and  remained,  minute  by 
minute,  unstirring,  unwinking,  watching  as  if  in  my  own  mind 
the  exquisite  small  fires  kindle  and  flit  from  point  to  point  of 
lichen  and  bark,  until — out  of  this  engrossment — little  but  a  burn- 
ing icicle  was  left  to  trudge  along  home. 

It  was  December  23rd.  I  remember  that  date,  and  even  now 
hardly  understand  the  meaning  or  intention  of  what  it  brought 
me.  Love  for  the  frosty,  star-roofed  woods,  that  was  easy. 
And  yet  what  if — though  easy — it  is  not  enough?  I  had  lingered 
on,  talking  in  my  childish  fashion — a  habit  never  to  leave  me — 
to  every  sudden  lovely  morsel  in  turn,  when,  to  my  dismay,  I 
heard  St  Peter's  clock  toll  midnight.  Was  it  my  fancy  that  at 
the  stroke,  and  as  peacefully  as  a  mother  when  she  is  alone  with 
her  sleeping  children,  the  giant  tree  sighed,  and  the  whole 
night  stilled  as  if  at  the  opening  of  a  door?  I  don't  know,  for 
I  would  sometimes  pretend  to  be  afraid  merely  to  enjoy  the  pre- 
tending. And  even  my  small  Bowater  astronomy  had  taught 
me  that  as  the  earth  has  her  poles  and  equator,  so  these  are  in 
relation  to  the  ecliptic  and  the  equinoctial.  So  too,  then,  each  one 
of  us — even  a  mammet  like  myself — must  live  in  a  world  of 
the  imagination  which  is  in  everlasting  relation  to  its  heavens. 
But  I  must  keep  my  feet. 

I  waved  adieu  to  the  woods  and  unseen  Wanderslore.  As  if 
out  of  the  duskiness  a  kind  of  reflex  of  me  waved  back;  and  I 
was  soon  hastening  along  down  the  hill,  the  only  thing  stirring  in 
the  cold,  white,  luminous  dust.  Instinctively,  in  drawing  near, 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  upper  windows  of  Mrs  Bowater's  crouching 
house.  To  my  utter  confusion.  For  one  of  them  was  wide 
open,  and  seated  there,  as  if  in  wait  for  me,  was  a  muffled 
figure — and  that  not  my  landlady's — looking  out.  All  my  fine 
boldness  and  excitement  died  in  me.  I  may  have  had  no  ap- 
prehension of  telling  Mrs  Bowater  of  my  pilgrimages,  but,  not 
having  told  her,  I  had  a  lively  distaste  of  being  "found  out." 

Stiff  as  a  post,  I  gazed  up  through  the  shadowed  air  at  the 
vague,  motionless  figure — to  all  appearance  completely  unaware 
of  my  presence.  But  there  is  a  commerce  between  minds  as 
92 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

well  as  between  eyes.     I  was  perfectly  certain  that  I  was  being 
thought  about,  up  there. 

For  a  while  my  mind  faltered.  The  old  childish  desire  gathered 
in  me — to  fly,  to  be  gone,  to  pass  myself  away.  There  was 
a  door  in  the  woods.  Better  sense,  and  perhaps  a  creeping 
curiosity,  prevailed,  however.  With  a  bold  front,  and  as  if 
my  stay  in  the  street  had  been  of  my  own  choosing,  I  entered 
the  gate,  ascended  my  "Bateses,"  and  so  into  the  house.  Then 
I  listened.  Faintly  at  last  sounded  a  stealthy  footfall  over- 
head ;  the  window  was  furtively  closed.  Doubt  vanished.  In 
preparation  for  the  night's  expedition  I  had  lain  down  in  the 
early  evening  for  a  nap.  Evidently  while  I  had  been  asleep, 
Fanny  had  come  home.  The  English  mistress  had  caught  her 
mother's  lodger  playing  truant ! 


93 


Chapter  Eleven 


IF  it  was  the  child  of  wrath  in  me  that  hungered  at  times  after 
the  night,  woods,  and  solitude  to  such  a  degree  that  my  very 
breast  seemed  empty  within  me ;  it  was  now  the  child  of  grace 
that  prevailed.  With  girlish  exaggeration  I  began  torturing 
myself  in  my  bed  with  remorse  at  the  deceit  I  had  been  practising. 
Now  Conscience  told  me  that  I  must  make  a  full  confession  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning ;  and  now  that  it  would  be  more  decent 
to  let  Fanny  "tell  on  me."  At  length  thought  tangled  with 
dream,  and  a  grisly  night  was  mine. 

What  was  that?  It  was  day;  Mrs  Bowater  was  herself  softly 
calling  me  beyond  my  curtains,  and  her  eye  peeped  in.  Always 
before  I  had  been  up  and  dressed  when  she  brought  in  my 
breakfast.  Through  a  violent  headache  I  surveyed  the  stooping 
face.  Something  in  my  appearance  convinced  her  that  I  was 
ill,  and  she  insisted  on  my  staying  in  bed. 

"But,  Mrs  Bowater  ..."     I  expostulated. 

"No,  no,  miss ;  it  was  in  a  butt  they  drowned  the  sexton.  Here 
you  stay ;  and  its  being  Christmas  Eve,  you  must  rest  and  keep 
quiet.  What  with  those  old  books  and  all,  you  have  been 
burning  the  candle  at  both  ends." 

Early  in  the  afternoon  on  finding  that  her  patient  was  little 
better,  my  landlady  went  off  to  the  chemist's  to  get  me  some 
physic ;  I  could  bear  inactivity  no  longer,  and  rose  and  dressed. 
The  fire  was  low,  the  room  sluggisb,  when  in  the  dusk,  as  I  sat 
dismally  brooding  in  my  chair,  the  door  opened,  and  a  stranger 
came  in  with  my  tea.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  and  was 
carrying  a  light.  With  that  raised  in  one  hand,  and  my  tea-tray 
held  between  finger  and  thumb  of  the  other,  she  looked  at  mc 
with  face  a  little  sidelong.  Her  hair  was  dark  above  her  clear 
pale  skin,  and  drawn,  without  a  fringe,  smoothly  over  her 
brows.  Her  eyes  were  almost  unnaturally  light  in  colour.  I 
looked  at  her  in  astonishment;  she  was  new  in  my  world.  She 
94 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pul  the  tray  on  my  tabic,  poked  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  blew  out  her 
candle  at  a  single  puff  from  her  pursed  lips,  and  seating  herseli 
on  the  hearthrug,  clasped  her  hands  round  her  km 

"Mother  told  me  you  were  in  bed,  ill,"  she  said.  "I  hope 
you  are  better." 

1  assured  her  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper  that  I 
was  quite  well  again. 

She  nestled  her  chin  down  and  broke  into  a  little  laugh: 
"My!  how  you  startled  me!" 

"Then  it  was  you,"  I  managed  to  say. 

"Oh,  yes;  it  was  me.  it  was  me."  The  words  were  uttered 
as  if  to  herself.  She  stooped  her  cheek  over  her  knees  again, 
and  smiled  round  at  me.     "I'm  not  telling"  she  added  softly. 

Her  tone,  her  expression,  filled  me  with  confusion.  "But 
please  do  not  suppose."  1  began  angrily,  "that  1  am  not  my 
own  mistress  here.     1  have  my  own   key " 

"Oh,  yes,  your  own  mistress,"  she  interrupted  suavely,  "but 
you  see  that's  just  what  I'm  nut.  And  the  k< ■;.  !  why,  it's  just 
envy  that's  gnawing  at  the  roots.  I've  never,  never  in  my  life 
seen  anything  so  queer."  She  suddenly  raised  her  strange  eyes 
on  me.     "What  were  you  doing  out  there?" 

A  lie  perched  on  my  lip ;  but  the  wide,  light  eyes  searched 
me  through.  "I  went,"  said  I.  "to  be  in  the  woods — to  see  the 
stars";  then  added  in  a  rather  pompous  voice,  "only  the  southern 
and  eastern  constellations  are  visible  from  this  poky  little 
window." 

There  was  no  change  in  the  expression  of  the  two  eyes  that 
drank  me  in.  "I  see;  and  you  want  them  all.  That's  odd, 
now."  she  went  on  reflectively,  stabbing  again  at  the  fire;  "they 
have  never  attracted  me  very  much — angels'  tin-tacks,  as  they 
say  in  the  Sunday  Schools.  Fanny  Bowater  was  looking  for 
the  moon." 

She  turned  once  more,  opened  her  lips,  showing  the  firm 
row  of  teeth  beneath  them,  and  sang  in  a  low  voice  the  first 
words,  I  suppose,  of  some  old  madrigal:  ''She  enchants  me/ 
And  if  /  had  my  little  key,  and  my  little  secret  door.  .  .  .  Bui 
never  mind.  'Tell-tale  Tit,  her  tongue  shall  be  slit.'  It's 
safe  with  me.  I'm  no  sneak.  I>ut  you  might  like  to  know.  Miss 
M.,  that  my  mother  thinks  the  very  world  of  you.  And  so  do 
I,   for  that  matter;  though  perhaps    for  different   reasons." 

95 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

The  calm,  insolent  words  infuriated  me,  and  yet  her  very 
accents,  with  a  curious  sweet  rasp  in  them,  like  that  in  a  sky- 
lark's song  when  he  slides  his  last  twenty  feet  from  the  clouds, 
were  an  enchantment.  Ever  and  always  there  seemed  to  be 
two  Fannies ;  one  visible,  her  face ;  the  other  audible,  her  voice. 
But  the  enchantment  was  merely  fuel  for  the  flames. 

"Will  you  please  remember,"  I  broke  out  peremptorily,  "that 
neither  myself  nor  what  I  choose  to  do  is  any  affair  of  yours. 
Mrs  Bowater  is  an  excellent  landlady ;  you  can  tell  her  precisely 
what  you  please;  and — and"  (I  seemed  to  be  choking)  "I  am 
accustomed  to  take  my  meals  alone." 

The  sidelong  face  grew  hard  and  solemn  in  the  firelight, 
then  slowly  turned,  and  once  more  the  eyes  surveyed  me  under 
lifted  brows — like  the  eyes  of  an  angel,  empty  of  mockery  or 
astonishment  or  of  any  meaning  but  that  of  their  beauty. 
"There  you  are,"  she  said.  "One  talks  like  one  human  being  to 
another,  and  I  should  have  thought  you'd  be  grateful  for  that ; 
and  this  is  the  result.  Facts  are  facts ;  and  I'm  not  sorry  for 
them,  good  or  bad.  If  you  wish  to  see  the  last  of  me,  here  it  is. 
I  don't  thrust  myself  on  people — there's  no  need.  But  still ; 
I'm  not  telling." 

She  rose,  and  with  one  light  foot  on  my  fender,  surveyed 
herself  for  a  moment  with  infinite  composure  in  the  large  looking- 
glass  that  spanned  the  chimney-piece. 

And  I? — I  was  exceedingly  tired.  My  head  was  burning 
like  a  coal ;  my  thoughts  in  confusion.  Suddenly  I  lost  control 
of  myself  and  broke  into  an  angry,  ridiculous  sobbing.  I 
simply  sat  there,  my  face  hidden  in  my  dry,  hot  hands,  miserable 
and  defeated.     And  strange  Fanny  Bowater,  what  did  she  do? 

"Heavens !"  she  muttered  scornfully,  "I  gave  up  snivelling 
when  I  was  a  baby."  Then  voice,  manner,  even  attitude  suddenly 
changed — "And   there's   mother!" 

When  Mrs  Bowater  knocked  at  my  door,  though  still  in  my 
day-clothes,  I  was  in  bed  again,  and  my  tea  lay  untasted  on 
a  chair  beside  it. 

"Dear,  dear,"  she  said,  leaning  anxiously  over  me,  "your 
poor  cheeks  are  red  as  a  firebrand,  miss.  Those  chemists  daren't 
put  a  nose  outside  their  soaps  and  tooth  powders.  It  must  be 
Dr  Phelps  to-morrow  if  you  are  no  better.  And  as  plump  a 
little  Christmas  pudding  boiling  for  you  in  the  pot  as  ever  you 
96 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

could  see!  Tell  me,  now;  there's  no  pain  anywhere — throat, 
limbs,  or  elsewhere?" 

I  shook  my  head.  She  sprinkled  a  drop  or  two  of  eau  de 
Cologne  on  my  sheet  and  pillow,  gently  bathed  my  temples 
and  hands,  kindled  a  night-light,  and  left  me  once  more  to  my 
own  reflections. 

They  were  none  too  comfortable.  One  thing  only  was  in  my 
mind — Fanny  Bowater,  her  face,  her  voice,  every  glance  and 
intonation,  smile,  and  gesture.  That  few  minutes'  talk  seemed 
now  as  remote  and  incredible  as  a  nightmare.  The  stars,  the 
woods,  my  solitary  delights  in  learning  and  thinking  were  all 
suddenly  become  empty  and  meaningless.  She  despised  me : 
and  I  hated  her  with  a  passion  I  cannot  describe. 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  my  hatred  1  longed  for  her  company 
again,  distracting  myself  with  the  sharp  and  clever  speeches 
I  might  have  made  to  her,  and  picturing  her  confounded  by  my 
contempt  and  indifference.  But  should  I  ever  see  her  alone 
again?  At  every  sound  and  movement  in  the  house,  which 
before  had  so  little  concerned  me,  I  lay  listening,  with  held 
breath.  I  might  have  been  a  mummy  in  a  Pyramid  hearkening 
after  the  fluttering  pinions  of  its  spirit  come  back  to  bring  it 
life.     But  no  tidings  came  of  the  stranger. 

When  my  door  opened  again,  it  was  only  to  admit  Mrs 
Bowater  with  my  supper — a  howl  of  infant's  gruel,  not  the 
customary  old  lady's  rusk  and  milk.  I  laughed  angrily  within 
to  think  that  her  daughter  must  have  witnessed  its  preparation. 
Even  at  twenty,  then,  I  had  not  grown  used  to  being  of  so  little 
consequence  in  other  people's  eyes.  Yet,  after  all,  who  ever 
quite  succeeds  in  being  that?  My  real  rage  was  not  that  Fanny 
had  taken  me  as  a  midget,  but  as  such  a  midget.  Yet  can  I 
honestly  say  that  I  have  ever  taken  her  as  mere  Fanny,  and 
not  as  such  a  Fanny? 

The  truth  is  she  had  wounded  my  vanity,  and  vanity  may 
be  a  more  fractious  nursling  even  than  a  wounded  heart.  Tired 
and  fretful,  I  had  hardly  realized  the  flattering  candour  of  her 
advances.  Even  her  promises  not  to  "tell"  of  my  night-wander- 
ings, implied  that  she  trusted  in  my  honour  not  to  tell  of 
her  promise.  I  thought  and  thought  of  her.  She  remained 
an  enigma.  Cold  and  hard — no  one  had  ever  spoken  to  me 
like  that  before.     Yet  her  voice — it  was  as  if  it  had  run  abont 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

in  my  blood,  and  made  my  eyes  shine.  A  mere  human  sound 
to  set  me  sobbing!  More  dangerous  yet,  I  began  to  think  of 
what  Miss  Bowater  must  be  thinking  of  me,  until,  exhausted, 
I  fell  asleep,  to  dream  that  I  was  a  child  again  and  shut  up 
in  one  of  Mrs  Ballard's  glass  jars,  and  that  a  hairy  woman  who 
was  a  kind  of  mixture  of  Mrs  Bowater  and  Miss  Fenne,  was 
tapping  with  a  thimbled  finger  on  its  side  to  increase  my  terror. 

Next  morning,  thank  Heaven,  admitted  me  to  my  right 
mind  again.  I  got  out  of  bed  and  peered  through  the  window. 
It  was  Christmas  Day.  A  thin  scatter  of  snow  was  powdering 
down  out  of  the  grey  sky.  The  fields  were  calm  and  frozen. 
I  felt,  as  I  might  say,  the  hunger  in  my  face,  looking  out.  There 
was  something  astonishingly  new  in  my  life.  Everything  familiar 
had  become  a  little  strange. 

Over  night,  too,  some  one — and  with  mingled  feelings  I 
guessed  who — must  have  stolen  into  my  room  while  I  lay  asleep. 
Laid  out  on  a  bedside  chair  was  a  crimson  padded  dressing- 
jacket,  threaded  with  gold,  a  delicate  piece  of  needlework  that 
would  have  gladdened  my  grandfather.  Rolled  up  on  the  floor 
beside  it  was  a  thick  woollen  mat,  lozenged  in  green  and  scarlet, 
and  just  of  a  size  to  spread  beside  my  bed.  These  gifts  multi- 
plied my  self-reproaches  and  made  me  acutely  homesick. 

What  should  I  do?  Beneath  these  thoughts  was  a  quiet 
fizz  of  expectation  and  delight,  like  water  under  a  boat.  Pride 
and  common  sense  fought  out  their  battle  in  my  mind.  It  was 
pride  that  lost  the  day.  When  Mrs  Bowater  brought  in  my 
breakfast,  she  found  her  invalid  sitting  up  in  Fanny's  handsome 
jacket,  and  the  mat  laid  over  the  bedrail  for  my  constant  con- 
templation. Nor  had  I  forgotten  Mrs  Bowater.  By  a  little 
ruse  I  had  found  out  the  name  and  address  of  a  chemist  in  the 
town,  and  on  the  tray  beside  my  breakfast  was  the  fine  bottle 
of  lavender  water  which  I  had  myself  ordered  him  to  send  by 
the  Christmas  Eve  post. 

"Well  there,  miss,  you  did  take  me  in  that  time,"  she  assured 
me.  "And  more  like  a  Valentine  than  a  Christmas  present ; 
and  its  being  the  only  scent  so-called  that  I've  any  nose  for." 

Clearly  this  was  no  occasion  for  the  confessional,  even  if 
I  had  had  a  mind  to  it.  But  I  made  at  least  half  a  vow  never 
to  go  star-gazing  again  without  her  knowledge.  My  looks 
pleased  her  better,  too,  though  not  so  much  better  as  to  persuade 
98 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

her  to  countermand  Dr  Phelps.     Wry  yellowish  long  hand  with 
its  worn  wedding-ring  was  smoothing  my  counterpane.     I  clutched 

at  it,  and,  shame-stricken,  smiled  up  into  her  face. 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy,"  I  said.  At  this  small  re- 
mark, the  heavy  eyelids  trembled,  hut  she  made  no  reply. 

"Did."  I  managed  to  inquire  at  last,  "did  she  have  any  break- 
fast before  she  went  for  the  doctor?" 

"A  cup  of  tea,"  said  Mrs  Bowater  shortly.  A  curious  happiness 
took  possession  of  me. 

"She  is  very  young  to  he  teaching;  not  much  older  than  I  am." 

"'ldie  danger  was  to  keep  her  hack."  was  the  obscure  reply. 
"We  don't  always  see  eye  to  eye." 

For  an  instant  the  dark,  cavernous  face  above  me  was  mated 
by  that  other  of  birdlike  lightness  and  beauty.  "Isn't  it  funny?" 
I  observed,  "I  had  made  quite,  quite  a  different  picture  of  her." 

"Looks  are  looks,  and  brains  are  brains;  and  between  them 
you  must  tread  very  wary." 

About  eleven  o'clock  a  solemn-looking  young  man  of  about 
thirty,  with  a  large  pair  of  reddish  leather  gloves  in  his  hand, 
entered  the  room.  For  a  moment  he  did  not  see  my  bedroom, 
then,  remarking  circumspectly  in  a  cheerful,  hollow  voice,  "So 
this  is  our  patient,"  he  hade  me  good-morning,  and  took  a  seat 
beside  my  bed.  A  deep  blush  mounted  up  into  the  fair,  smooth- 
downed  cheeks  as  he  returned  my  scrutiny  and  asked  me  to 
exhibit  my  tongue.     I  put  it  out,  and  he  blushed  even  deeper. 

"And  the  pulse,  please,"  he  murmured,  rising.  I  drew  back  the 
crimson  sleeve  of  Fanny's  jacket,  and  with  extreme  nicety  he 
placed  the  tip  of  a  square,  icy  forefinger  on  my  wrist.  Once 
more  his  fair-lashed  eyelids  began  to  blink.  He  extracted  a 
fine  gold  watch  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  compared  heat  with 
beat,  frowned,  and  turned  to  Mrs  Bowater. 

"You  are  not,  I  assume,  aware  of  the — the  young  lady's  normal 
pulse?" 

'There  being  no  cause  before  to  consider  it,  I  am  not,"  Mrs 
Bowater  returned. 

"Any  padn?"  said  Dr  Phelps. 

"Headache,"  replied  Mrs  I'.owater  on  my  behalf,  "and  shoots 
in  the  limbs." 

At   that   Dr  Phelps  took  a  metal   case   out    of   his   waistcoat, 

99 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

glanced  at  it,  glanced  at  me,  and  put  it  back  again.  He  leaned 
over  so  close  to  catch  the  whisper  of  my  breathing  that  there 
seemed  a  danger  of  my  losing  myself  in  the  labyrinth  of  his 
downy  ear. 

"H'm,  a  little  fever,"  he  said  musingly.  "Have  we  any 
reason  to  suppose  that  we  can  have  taken  a  chill  ?" 

The  head  on  the  pillow  stirred  gently  to  and  fro,  and  I 
think  its  cheek  was  dyed  with  an  even  sprightlier  red  than  had 
coloured  his.  After  one  or  two  further  questions,  and  a  low 
colloquy  with  Mrs  Bowater  in  the  passage,  Dr  Phelps  withdrew, 
and  his  carriage  rolled  away. 

"A  painstaking  young  man,"  Mrs  Bowater  summed  him  up 
in  the  doorway,  "but  not  the  kind  I  should  choose  to  die  under. 
You  are  to  keep  quiet  and  warm,  miss ;  have  plenty  of  light 
nourishment ;  and  physic  to  follow.  Which,  except  for  the  last- 
mentioned,  and  that  mainly  water,  one  don't  have  to  ride  in 
a  carriage  to  know  for  one's  self." 

But  "peace  and  goodwill" :  I  liked  Dr  Phelps,  and  felt  so 
much  better  for  his  skill  that  before  his  wheels  had  rolled  out  of 
hearing  I  had  leapt  out  of  bed,  dragged  out  the  trunk  that  lay 
beneath  it,  and  fetched  out  from  it  a  treasured  ivory  box.  On 
removal  of  the  lid,  this  ingenious  work  disclosed  an  Oriental 
Temple,  with  a  spreading  tree,  a  pool,  a  long-legged  bird,  and 
a  mountain.  And  all  these  exquisitely  tinted  in  their  natural 
colours.  It  had  come  from  China,  and  had  belonged  to  my 
mother's  brother,  Andrew,  who  was  an  officer  in  the  Navy 
and  had  died  at  sea.  This  I  wrapped  up  in  a  square  of  silk  and 
tied  with  a  green  thread.  During  the  whole  of  his  visit  my  head 
had  been  so  hotly  in  chase  of  this  one  stratagem  that  it  is  a 
marvel  Dr  Phelps  had  not  deciphered  it  in  my  pulse. 

When  Mrs  Bowater  brought  in  my  Christmas  dinner — little 
but  bread  sauce  and  a  sprig  of  holly ! — I  dipped  in  the  spoon, 
and,  as  innocently  as  I  knew  how,  inquired  if  her  daughter 
would  like  to  see  some  really  fine  sewing. 

The  black  eyes  stood  fast,  then  the  ghost  of  a  smile  vanished 
over  her  features;  "I'll  be  bound  she  would,  miss.  I'll  give 
her  your  message."  Alone  again,  I  turned  over  on  my  pillow 
and  laughed  until  tears  all  but  came  into  my  eyes. 

All  that  afternoon  I  waited  on,  the  coals  of  fire  that  I  had 
prepared  for  my  enemy's  head  the  night  before  now  ashes  of 
ioo 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

penitence  on  my  own.  A  dense  smell  of  cooking  pervaded  the 
house ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  evening  that  Fanny  Bowater 
appeared. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  white  muslin  gown  with  a  wreath  of 
pale  green  leaves  in  her  hair.  "I  am  going  to  a  party,"  she  said, 
"so  I  can't  waste  much  time." 

"Mrs  Bowater  thought  you  would  like  to  see  some  really 
beautiful  needlework,"  I  replied  suavely. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "where  is  it?" 

"Won't  you  come  a  little  closer?" 

That  figure,  as  nearly  like  the  silver  slip  of  the  new  moon 
as  ever  I  have  seen,  seemed  to  float  in  my  direction.  I  held 
my  breath  and  looked  up  into  the  light,  dwelling  eyes.  "It  is 
this,"  I  whispered,  drawing  my  two  hands  down  the  bosom 
of  her  crimson  dressing-jacket.  "It  is  only,  Thank  you,  I  wanted 
to  say." 

In  a  flash  her  lips  broke  into  a  low  clear  laughter.  "Why, 
that's  nothing.  Really  and  truly  1  hate  that  kind  of  work ; 
but  mother  often  wrote  of  you ;  there  was  nothing  better  to 
do;  and  the  smallness  of  the  thing  amused  me." 

I  nodded  humbly.  "Yes,  yes,"  I  muttered,  "Midget  is  as 
Midget  wears.  I  know  that.  And — and  here,  Miss  Bowater, 
is  a  little  Christmas  present  from  me." 

Voraciously  I  watched  her  smooth  face  as  she  untied  the 
thread.  "A  little  ivory  box !"  she  exclaimed,  pushing  back  the 
lid,  "and  a  Buddhist  temple,  how  very  pretty.     Thank  you." 

"Yes,  Miss  Bowater,  and,  do  you  see,  in  the  corner  there? 
a  moon.     'She  enchants'  you." 

"So  it  is,"  she  laughed,  closing  the  box.  "I  was  supposing," 
she  went  on  solemnly,  "that  I  had  been  put  in  the  corner  in 
positively  everlasting  disgrace." 

"Please  don't  say  that,"  I  entreated.  "We  may  be  friends. 
mayn't  we?     I  am  better  now." 

Her  eyes  wandered  over  my  bed,  my  wardrobe,  and  all  my 
possessions.     "But  yes,"  she  said,  "of  course";  and  laughed  again. 

"And  you  believe  me?" 

"Believe  you?" 

"That  it  was  the  stars?  I  thought  Mrs  Bowater  might  be 
anxious  if  she  knew.  It  was  quite,  quite  safe,  really;  and  I'm 
going  to  tell  her." 

IOI 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  replied  in  a  cold,  small  voice,  "so  you  are 
still  worrying  about  that.  I — I  envied  you."  With  a  glance 
over  her  shoulder,  she  leaned  closer.  "Next  time  you  go,"  she 
breathed  out  to  me,  "we'll  go  together." 

My  heart  gave  a  furious  leap;  my  lips  closed  tight.  "I 
could  tell  you  the  names  of  some  of  the  stars  now,"  I  said,  in 
a  last  wrestle  with  conscience. 

"No,  no,"  said  Fanny  Bowater,  "it  isn't  the  stars  I'm  after. 
The  first  fine  night  we'll  go  to  the  woods.  You  shall  wait  for 
me  till  everything  is  quiet.  It  will  be  good  practise  in  practical 
astronomy."  She  watched  my  face,  and  began  silently  laughing 
as  if  she  were  reading  my  thoughts.  "That's  a  bargain,  then. 
What  is  life,  Miss  M.,  but  experience?  And  what  is  experience, 
but  knowing  thyself?  And  what's  knowing  thyself  but  the 
very  apex  of  wisdom  ?  Anyhow  it's  a  good  deal  more  interesting 
than  the  Prince  of  Denmark." 

"Yes",  I  agreed.     "And  there's  still  all  but  a  full  moon." 

"Aha !"  said  she.  "But  what  a  world  with  only  one !  Jupiter 
has  scores,  hasn't  he?  Just  think  of  his  Love  Lanes!"  She 
rose  to  her  feet  with  a  sigh  of  boredom,  and  smoothed  out 
her  skirts  with  her  long,  narrow  hands.  I  stared  at  her  beauty 
in  amazement. 

"I  hate  these  parties  here,"  she  said.  "They  are  not  worth 
while." 

"You  look  lov — you  look  all  right." 

"H'm ;  but  what's  that  when  there's  no  one  to  see." 

"But  you  see  yourself.     You  live  in  it." 

The  reflected  face  in  the  glass,  which,  craning  forward,  I 
could  just  distinguish,  knitted  its  placid  brows.  "Why,  if  that 
were  enough,  we  should  all  be  hermits.  I  rather  think,  you 
know,  that  God  made  man  almost  solely  in  the  hope  of  his 
two-legged    appreciation.     But    perhaps    you    disapprove    of    in- 


cense 


Why  should  I,  Miss  Bowater?  My  Aunt  Kitilda  was  a 
Catholic :  and  so  was  my  mother's  family  right  back." 

"That's  right,"  said  Miss  Bowater.  She  kissed  her  hand 
to  looking-glass  and  four-poster,  flung  me  a  last  fervid  smile, 
and  was  gone.  And  the  little  box  I  had  given  her  lay  on  the 
table,  beside  my  bed. 

I  was  aroused  much  later  by  the  sound  of  voices  drawing 
102 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

nearer.  Instinctively  1  sat  up,  my  senses  fastened  on  the  sound 
like  a  vampire.  The  voices  seemed  to  be  in  argument,  then 
the  footsteps  ceased  and  clear  on  the  night  air  came  the  words: — 

"I '.nt  you  made  me  promise  not  to  write.  Oh,  Fanny,  and 
you  have  broken  your  own  !" 

"Then  you  must  confess,"  was  the  cautious  reply,  "that  I 
am  consistent.  As  for  the  promises,  you  are  quite,  quite  welcome 
to  the  pieces." 

"You  mean  that?"  was  the  muffled  retort. 

'•That,"  cried  the  other  softly,  "depends  entirely  on  what  you 
mean  by  'mean.'  Please  look  happy !  You'd  soon  grow  old 
and  uglier  if  there  was  only  that  scrap  of  moon  to  light  your  face." 

"Oh,  Fanny.  Will  you  never  be  serious?" — the  misery  in 
the  words  seemed  to  creep  about  in  my  own  mind  for  shelter. 
They  were  answered  by  a  sparkling  gush  of  laughter,  followed 
by  a  crisp,  emphatic  knock  at  the  door.  Fanny  had  returned 
from  her  party,  and  the  eavesdropper  buried  her  face  in  her 
pillow.     So  she  enjoyed  hurting  people.     And  yet.  .  .  . 


!03 


Chapter  Twelve 


THE  next  afternoon  Mrs  Bowater  was  out  when  Dr  Phelps 
made  his  call.  It  was  Fanny  who  ushered  him  into  the 
room.  He  felt  my  pulse  again,  held  up  the  phial  of 
medicine  to  the  light,  left  unconsulted  my  tongue,  and  pronounced 
that  "we  are  doing  very  nicely."  As  indeed  I  was.  While  this 
professional  inquiry  was  in  progress  Fanny  stood  silently  watch- 
ing us,  then  exclaimed  that  it  was  half-past  four,  and  that  I  must 
have  my  tea.  She  was  standing  behind  Dr  Phelps,  and  for  a 
few  seconds  I  watched  with  extreme  interest  but  slow  under- 
standing a  series  of  mute  little  movements  of  brows  and  lips 
which  she  was  directing  at  me  while  he  was  jotting  down  a  note 
in  a  leather  pocket-book.  At  length  I  found  myself  repeating 
— as  if  at  her  dictation — a  polite  little  invitation  to  him  to  take 
tea  with  me.  The  startled  blue  eyes  lifted  themselves  above 
the  pocket-book,  the  square,  fair  head  was  bowing  a  polite  refusal, 
when,  "But,  of  course,  Dr  Phelps,"  Fanny  broke  in  like  one 
inspired,  "how  very  thoughtless  of  me!" 

"Thank  you,    thank   you,    Miss    Bowater,    but "    cried   Dr 

Phelps,  with  a  smooth  uplifted  hand,  and  almost  statuesque 
in  his  pose.  His  refusal  was  too  late.  Miss  Bowater  had 
hastened  from  the  room. 

His  panic  passed.  He  reseated  himself,  and  remarking  that 
it  was  a  very  cold  afternoon,  predicted  that  if  the  frost  con- 
tinued, skating  might  be  expected.  Conversation  of  this  kind 
is  apt  so  soon  to  faint  away  like  a  breeze  in  hot  weather,  that 
I  kept  wondering  what  to  say  next.  Besides,  whenever  Dr 
Phelps  seemed  impelled  to  look  at  me,  he  far  more  quickly  looked 
away,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  suggested  that  he  was  uncertain 
if  he  was  not  all  but  talking  to  himself.  To  put  him  more  at 
his  ease  I  inquired  boldly  if  he  had  many  other  midgets  among 
his  patients. 

The  long  lashes  swept  his  cheeks;  he  pondered  a  while  on 
my  landlady's  window  curtains.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  perhaps 
104 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

not,"  he  replied  at  last,  as  if  giving  me  the  result  of  a  mathematical 
calculation. 

"I  suppose,  Dr  Phelps,"  I  then  inquired,  "there  might  he 
more,  at  any  time,  might  there  not?"  Our  glances  this  time 
met.     He  blinked. 

"My  father  and  mother,  1  menu."  I  explained  in  some  con- 
fusion, "were  just  of  the  com — of  the  ordinary  size.  And  what 
I  was  wondering  is,  whether  you  yourself  would  be  sorry — in 
quite  a  general  way,  of  course — if  you  found  your  practice  going 
down  like  that." 

"Going  down?" 

"I  mean  the  patients  coming  smaller.  I  never  had  the  op- 
portunity of  asking  our  own  doctor,  Dr  Grose.  At  Lyndsey, 
you  know.  Besides,  I  was  a  child  then.  Now,  first  of  all,  it 
is  true,  isn't  it,  that  giants  are  usually  rather  dull-witted  people? 
So  nobody  would  deliberately  choose  that  kind  of  change.  If, 
then,  quality  does  vary  with  quantity,  mightn't  there  be  an  im- 
provement in  the  other  direction?  You  will  think  I  am  being 
extremely  ego — egotistical.  But  one  must  take  Jack's  side,  mustn't 
one? — even  if  one's  Jill?" 

"Jack?" 

"The  Giant  Killer." 

He  looked  at  me  curiously,  and  his  finger  and  thumb  once 
more  strayed  up  towards  the  waistcoat  pocket  in  which  he  kept 
his  thermometer.     But  instead  of  taking  it  out,  he  coughed. 

"There  is  a  norm "  he  began  in  a  voice  not  quite  his  own. 

"Ah,"  I  cried,  interrupting  him,  and  throwing  up  my  hands, 
"there  is  indeed.  But  why,  I  ask  myself,  so  vast  a  number 
of  examples  of  it !" 

It  was  as  if  a  voice  within  were  prompting  me.  Perhaps 
the  excitement  of  Fanny's  homecoming  was  partly  to  blame. 
"I  sit  at  my  window  here  and  watch  the  passers-by.  Norms, 
in  mere  size,  Dr  Phelps,  every  one  of  them,  if  you  allow  for  the 
few  little  defects  in  the — the  moulding,  you  know.  And  just 
think  what  London  must  be  like.  Why,  nobody  can  be  notice- 
able, there." 

"But  surely,"  Dr  Phelps  smiled  indulgently,  though  his  eye- 
lashes seemed  to  be  in  the  way,  "surely  variety  is  possible, 
without — er — excess.  Indeed  there  must  be  variety  in  order 
to  arrive  at  our  norm,  mustn't  there  ?" 

105 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"You'd  be  astonished,"  I  assured  him,  "how  slight  the  differ- 
ences really  are.  A  few  inches  or  ounces ;  red  or  black  or  fawn ; 
and  age,  and  sex,  of  course;  that's  all.  Now,  isn't  it  true,  Dr 
Phelps,  that  almost  any  twenty  women — unselected,  you  know — 
would  weigh  about  a  ton?  And  surely  there's  no  particular 
reason  why  just  human  shells  should  weigh  as  much  as  that.  We 
are  not  lobsters.  And  yet,  do  you  know,  I  have  watched,  and 
they  really  seem  to  enjoy  being  the  same  as  one  another.  One 
would  think  they  tried  to  be — manners  and  habits,  knowledge 
and  victuals,  hats  and  boots,  everything.  And  if  on  the  outside, 
I  suppose  on  the  inside,  too.  What  a  mysterious  thing  it  seems. 
All  of  them  thinking  pretty  much  the  same :  Norm-Thoughts, 
you  know;  just  five-foot-fivers.  After  all,  one  wouldn't  so  much 
mind  the  monotonous  packages,  if  the  contents  were  different. 
'Forty    feeding    like    one' — who    said    that?     Now,    truly,     Dr 

Phelps,  don't  you  feel? It  would,  of  course,  be  very  serious 

at  first  for  their  mothers  and  fathers  if  all  the  little  human 
babies  here  came  midgets,  but  it  would  be  amusing,  too,  wouldn't 
it?  .  .  .     And  it  isn't  quite  my  own  idea,  either." 

Dr  Phelps  cleared  his  throat,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "But 
surely,"  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  emphasis  which  I  have  noticed 
men  are  apt  to  make  when  my  sex  asks  intelligent  or  unin- 
telligent questions :  "Surely  you  and  I  are  understanding  one 
another.  /  try  to  make  myself  clear  to  you.  So  extremes  can 
meet;  at  least  I  hope  so."  He  gave  me  a  charming  little  awk- 
ward bow.  "Tell  me,  then,  what  is  this  peculiar  difference 
you  are  so  anxious  about?  You  wouldn't  like  a  pygmy  England, 
a  pygmy  Universe,  now,  would  you,  Miss  M.  ?" 

It  was  a  great  pity.  A  pygmy  England — the  thought  dazzled 
me.  In  a  few  minutes  Dr  Phelps  would  perhaps  have  set  all 
my  doubts  at  rest.  But  at  that  moment  Miss  Bowater  came 
in  with  the  tea,  and  the  talk  took  quite  another  turn.  She  just 
made  it  Fanny's  size.  Even  Dr  Phelps  looked  a  great  deal 
handsomer  in  her  company.  More  sociable.  Nor  were  we  to 
remain  "three's  none."  She  had  finished  but  one  slice  of  toast 
over  my  fire,  and  inflamed  but  one  cheek,  when  a  more  pro- 
tracted but  far  less  vigorous  knock  than  Dr  Phelps's  on  the 
door  summoned  her  out  of  the  room  again.  And  a  minute  or 
1 06 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

two  afterwards  our  tea-party  became  one  of   four,  and  its  s<- 
(in  number,  at  any  rate)  equally  matched. 

By  a  happy  coincidence,  just  as  Good  King  Wenceslas  had 
looked  out  on  the  Feast  of  Stephen,  so  Mr  Crimble,  the  curate- 
in-charge  at  St  Peter's,  had  looked  in.  By  his  "Ah,  1 'helps!" 
it  was  evident  that  our  guests  were  well  acquainted  with  one 
another;  and  Fanny  and  I  were  soon  enjoying  a  tea  enriched 
by  the  cream  of  local  society.  Mr  Crimble  had  mild  dark 
eyes,  gold  spectacles,  rather  full  red  lips,  and  a  voice  that 
reminded  me  of  raspberries.  I  think  he  had  heard  of  me,  for 
he  was  very  attentive,  and  handled  my  small  cup  and  saucer 
with  remarkable,  if  rather  conspicuous,  ingenuity. 

Candles  were  lit.  The  talk  soon  became  animated.  From 
the  weather  of  this  Christmas  we  passed  to  the  weather  of  last. 
to  Dr  Phelps's  prospects  of  skating,  and  thence  to  the  good  old 
times,  to  Mr  Pickwick,  to  our  respective  childish  beliefs  in  Santa 
Claus,  stockings,  and  to  credulous  parents.  Fanny  repeated 
some  of  the  naive  remarks  made  by  her  pupils,  and  Mr  Crimble 
capped  them  with  a  collection  of  biblical  bons  mots  culled  in  his 
Sunday  School.  I  couldn't  glance  fast  enough  from  one  to  the 
other.  Dr  Phelps  steadily  munched  and  watched  Mr  Crimble. 
He  in  turn  told  us  of  a  patient  of  his,  a  Mrs  Hall,  who,  poor  old 
creature,  was  101,  and  enjoyed  nothing  better  than  playing  at 
"Old   Soldier"  with  a  small  grandson. 

"Literally,  second  childhood.  Senile  decay,"  he  said,  passing 
his  cup. 

From  Mrs  Hall  we  naturally  turned  to  parochial  affairs:  and 
then  Mr  Crimble,  without  more  ado,  bolted  his  mouthful  of 
toast,  in  order  to  explain  the  inmost  purpose  of  his  visit. 

He  was  anxious  to  persuade  Miss  Bowater  to  sing  at  the 
annual  Parish  Concert,  which  was  to  be  given  on  New  Year'- 
Eve.  Try  as  he  might,  he  had  been  unable  to  persuade  his  vicar 
of  the  efficacy  of  Watch  Night  Services.  So  a  concert  was  to 
be  given  instead.  Now,  would  Miss  Bowater,  as  ever,  be  ever 
so  kind,  and  would  I  add  my  entreaties  to  his?  As  he  looked 
at  Fanny  and  I  did  too — with  one  of  those  odd  turns  of  the  mind, 
I  was  conscious  that  the  peculiar  leaning  angle  of  his  head  was 
exactly  the  same  as  my  own.  Whereupon  I  glanced  at  Dr 
Phelps,  but  he  sat  fair  and  foursquare,  one  feeding  like  forty. 
Fanny  remaining  hesitant,  appeal  was  made  to  him.     With  al- 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

most  more  cordiality  than  Mr  Crimble  appeared  to  relish,  he 
agreed  that  the  musical  talent  available  was  not  so  abundant 
as  it  might  be,  and  he  promised  to  take  as  many  of  the  expensive 
tickets  as  Miss  Bowater  would  sing  songs. 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  musical,  not  like  you,  Crimble.  But 
I  don't  mind  a  pleasant  voice — in  moderation ;  and  I  assure 
you,  Miss  Bowater,  I  am  an  excellent  listener — given  a  fair 
chance,  you  know." 

"But  then,"  said  Fanny,  "so  am  I.  I  believe  now  really — 
and  one  can  judge  from  one's  speaking  voice,  can't  one,  Mr 
Crimble? — I  believe  you  sing  yourself." 

"Sing,  Miss  Bowater,"  interjected  Mr  Crimble,  tipping  back 
his  chair.  "  'The  wedding  guest  here  beat  his  chest,  for  he 
heard  the  loud  bassoon.'  Now,  conjuring  tricks,  eh,  Phelps? 
With  a  stethoscope  and  a  clinical  thermometer;  and  I'll  hold  the 
hat  and  make  the  omelette.     It  would  bring  down  the  house." 

"It  was  his  breast  he  beat ;  not  his  chest/'  I  broke  in. 

The  six  eyes  slid  round,  as  if  at  a  voice  out  of  the  clouds.  There 
was  a  pause. 

"Why,  exactly,"  cried  Mr  Crimble,  slapping  his  leg. 

"But  I  wish  Dr  Phelps  ivould  sing,"  said  Fanny  in  a  small  voice, 
passing  him  the  sugar. 

"He  must,  he  shall,"  said  Mr  Crimble,  in  extreme  jubilation. 
"So  that's  settled.  Thank  you,  Miss  Bowater,"  his  eyes  seemed 
to  melt  in  his  head  at  his  success,  "the  programme  is  complete." 

He  drew  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  inside  pocket  and  brandished 
a  silver  pencil-case.  "Mrs  Browning,  'The  Better  Land' — 
better  and  better  every  year.  'Caller  Herrin'  '  to  follow — 
though  what  kind  of  herrings  caller  herrings  are  I've  never  been 
able  to  discover."  He  beamed  on  me.  "Miss  Finch — she  is 
sending  me  the  names  of  her  songs  this  evening.  Miss  Willett 
and  Mr  Bangor — 'O  that  we  two,'  and  a  queer  pair  they'd  look ; 
and  'My  luv  is  like.'  Hardy  annuals.  Mrs  Bullace — recitations, 
' Abt  Vogler,'  and  no  doubt  a  Lord  Tennyson.  Flute,  Mr  Piper ; 
'Cello,  Miss  Oran,  a  niece  of  Lady  Pollacke's ;  and  for  comic  relief, 
Tom  Sturgess,  of  course ;  though  I  hope  he  will  be  a  little  more — 
er — eclectic  this  year.  And  you  and  I,"  again  he  turned  his  boyish 
brow  on  me,  "will  sit  with  Mrs  Bowater  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery — a  claque,  Phelps,  eh  ?" 
108 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

He  seemed  to  be  in  the  topmost  height  of  good  spirits.  Well, 
thought  I,  if  social  badinage  and  bonhomie  were  as  pleasant  and 
easy  as  this,  why  hadn't  my  mother ? 

"But  why  in  the  gallery?"  drawled  Fanny  suddenly  from  the 
hearthrug,  with  the  little  steel  poker  ready  poised;  "Miss  M. 
dances/' 

The  clear  voice  rasped  on  the  word.  A  peculiar  silence  followed 
the  lingering  accents.  The  two  gentlemen's  faces  smoothed  them- 
selves out,  and  both,  I  knew,  though  I  gave  them  no  heed,  sat  gaz- 
ing, not  at  their  hostess.  But  Fanny  herself  was  looking  at  me 
now,  her  light  eyes  quite  still  in  the  flame  of  the  candles,  which, 
with  their  reflections  in  Mrs  Bowater's  pier  glass  were  not  two, 
hut   four.     It  was  into  those  eyes  I  gazed,  yet  not  into,  only  at. 

All  day  my  thoughts  had  remained  on  her,  like  bubbles  in  wine. 
All  day  hope  of  the  coming  night  and  of  our  expedition  to  the 
woods  had  been,  as  it  were,  a  palace  in  which  my  girlish  fancy  had 
wandered,  and  now,  though  only  a  few  minutes  ago  I  had  been 
cheeping  my  small  extemporary  philosophy  into  the  ear  of  Dr 
Phelps,  the  fires  of  self-contempt  and  hatred  burned  up  in  me 
hotter  than  ever. 

I  forgot  even  the  dainty  dressing- jacket  on  my  back.  "Mi>s 
Bowater  is  pleased  to  be  satirical,"  I  said,  my  hand  clenched  in  my 
lap. 

"Now  was  I?"  cried  Fanny,  appealing  to  Dr  Phelps,  "be  just  to 
me."     Dr  Phelps  opened  his  mouth,  swallowed,  and  shut  it  again. 

"I  really  think  not,  you  know,"  said  Mr  Crimble  persuasively, 
coming  to  her  rescue.  "Indeed  it  would  be  extremely  kind  and — 
er — entertaining;  though  dancing — er — and — unless,  perhaps,  so 
many  strangers.  .  .  .  We  can  count  in  any  case  on  your  being 
present,  can  we  not,  Miss  M.  ?"  He  leaned  over  seductively,  finger 
and  thumb  twitching  at  the  plain  gold  cross  suspended  from  his 
watch-chain  on  his  black  waistcoat. 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  replied,  "you  can  count  on  me  for  the  claque." 

The  room  had  sunk  into  a  stillness.  Constraint  was  in  the  air. 
"Then  that's  settled.  On  New  Year's  Eve  we — we  all  meet  again. 
Unless,  Miss  Bowater,  there  is  any  hope  of  seeing  you  meanwhile 
— just  to  arrange  the  titles  and  so  on  of  your  songs  on  the  pro- 
gramme." 

"No,"  smiled  Fanny,  "I  see  no  hope  whatever.     You  forget, 

109 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Mr  Crimble,  there  are  dishes  to  wash.     And  hadn't  you  better  see 
Miss  Finch  first?" 

Mr  Crimble  cast  a  strange  look  at  her  face.  He  was  close  to 
her,  and  it  was  almost  as  if  he  had  whispered,  "Fanny."  But 
there  was  no  time  for  further  discussion.  Dr  Phelps,  gloved  and 
buttoned,  was  already  at  the  door. 

Fanny  returned  into  the  room  when  our  guests  had  taken  their 
departure.  I  heard  their  male  voices  in  vivacious  talk  as  they 
marched  off  in  the  cold  dark  air  beneath  my  window. 

"I  thought  they  were  never  going,"  said  Fanny  lightly,  twisting 
up  into  her  hair  an  escaped  ringlet.  "I  think,  do  you  know,  we  had 
better  say  nothing  to  mother  about  the  tea — at  least  not  yet  a  while. 
They  are  dull  creatures :  it's  pottering  about  so  dull  and  sleepy  a 
place,  I  suppose.  What  could  have  inspired  you  to  invite  Dr 
Phelps  to  tea?  Really,  really,  Miss  M.,  you  are  rather  astonish- 
ing.    Aren't  you,  now?" 

What  right  had  she  to  speak  to  me  like  this,  as  if  we  had  met 
again  after  another  life?  She  paused  in  her  swift  collection  of  the 
remnants  of  our  feast.     "Sulking?"  she  inquired  sweetly. 

With  an  effort  I  kept  my  self-possession.  "You  meant  what 
you  said,  then  ?     You  really  think  I  would  sink  to  that  ?" 

"  'Sink !'  To  what?  Oh,  the  dancing,  you  mean.  How  funny 
you  should  still  be  fretting  about  that.  Still,  you  look  quite  enter- 
taining when  you  are  cross :  'Diaphenia  like  the  daffadowndilly,' 
you  know.  Good  Heavens!  Surely  we  shouldn't  hide  any  kind 
of  lights  under  bushels,  should  we?  I'm  sure  the  Reverend 
Harold  would  agree  to  that.     Isn't  it  being  the  least  bit  pedantic  ?" 

"I  should  think,"  I  retorted,  "Mr  Crimble  would  say  anything 
pleasant  to  any  young  woman." 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  would,"  she  agreed.  "The  other  cheek  al- 
so, you  know.  But  the  real  question  is  what  the  young  woman 
would  say  in  reply.     You  are  too  sensitive,   Miss  M." 

"Perhaps  I  am."  Oh  that  I  could  escape  from  this  horrible  net 
between  us.  "I  know  this,  anyhow — that  I  lay  awake  till  mid- 
night because  you  had  made  a  kind  of  promise  to  come  in.  Then 
I — I  'counted  the  pieces.'  " 

Her  face  whitened  beneath  the  clear  skin.     "Oh,  so  we  list- 
she  began,  turning  on  me,  then  checked  herself.     "I  tell  you  this," 
she  said,  her  hand  trembling,  "I'm  sick  of  it  all.     Those — those 
no 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

fools!  Phi  I  thought  that  you,  being  as  you  are — snippeting 
along  out  of  the  night — might  understand.  There's  such  a  thing  as 
friendship  on  false  pretences,  Miss  M." 

Was  she,  too,  addressing,  as  she  supposed,  a  confidant  hardly 
more  external  to  herself  than  that  inward  being  whom  we  engage 
in  such  endless  talk  and  argument?  Her  violence  shocked  me; 
still  more  her  "fools."  For  the  word  was  still  next-door  neigh- 
hour  in  my  mind  to  the  dreadful  "Raca." 

'"Understand,"'  I  said,  "I  do,  if  you  would  only  let  me. 
You  just  hide  in  your — in  your  own  outside.  You  think  because 
I  am  as  I  am  that  I'm  only  of  that  much  account.  It's  you 
are  the — foolish.  Oh,  don't  let  us  quarrel.  You  just  came. 
I  never  knew.  Every  hour,  every  minute  .  .  ."  Inarticulate 
my  tongue  might  be,  but  my  face  told  its  tale.  She  must  have 
heard  many  similar  confessions,  yet  an  almost  childish  incredulity 
lightened  in  hers. 

"Keep  there,"  she  said;  "keep  there!  I  won't  be  a  moment." 

She  hastened  out  of  the  room  with  the  tea  things,  poising 
an  instant  like  a  bird  on  a  branch  as  she  pushed  open  the  door 
with  her  foot.  The  slave  left  behind  her  listened  to  her  footsteps 
dying  away  in  a  mingling  of  shame,  sorrow,  and  of  a  happiness 
beyond  words.  I  know  now  that  it  is  not  when  we  are  near 
people  that  we  reach  themselves,  not,  I  mean,  in  their  looks 
and  words,  but  only  by  following  their  thoughts  to  where  the 
spirit  within  plays  and  has  its  being.  Perhaps  if  I  had  realized 
this  earlier,  I  shouldn't  have  fallen  so  easy  a  prey  to  Fanny 
Bowater.  I  waited — but  that  particular  exchange  of  confidences 
was  never  to  be  completed.  A  key  sounded  in  the  latch.  Fanny 
had  but  time  to  show  herself  with  stooping,  almost  serpent- 
like  head,  in  the  doorway.  "To-night!"  she  whispered.  "And 
not  a  word,  not  a  word  !" 


in 


Chapter   Thirteen 


WAS  there  suspicion  in  the  face  of  Mrs  Bowater  that  eve- 
ning? Our  usual  familiar  talk  dwindled  to  a  few  words 
this  supper-time.  The  old  conflict  was  raging  in  my  mind 
— hatred  of  my  deceit,  horror  at  betraying  an  accomplice,  and 
longing  for  the  solemn  quiet  and  solitude  of  the  dark.  I  crushed 
my  doubtings  down  and  cast  a  dismal,  hostile  look  at  the  long  face, 
so  yellow  of  skin  and  sombre  in  expression.  When  would  she  be 
gone  and  leave  me  in  peace?  The  packed  little  parlour  hung 
stagnant  in  the  candlelight.  It  seemed  impossible  that  Mrs 
Bowater  could  not  hear  the  thoughts  in  my  mind.  Apparently  not. 
She  tidied  up  my  few  belongings,  which,  contrary  to  my  usual 
neat  habits,  I  had  left  scattered  over  the  table.  She  bade  me 
good-night ;  but  paused  in  the  doorway  to  look  back  at  me. 
But  what  intimacy  she  had  meant  to  share  with  me  was  put 
aside.  "Good-night,  miss,"  she  repeated ;  "and  I'm  sure,  God 
bless  you."  It  was  the  dark,  quiet  look  that  whelmed  over 
me.  I  gazed  mutely,  without  response,  and  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  clear  voice  like  that  of  a  cautious  mocking-bird  out 
of  a  wood. 

It  called  softly  on  two  honeyed  notes,  "Mo — ther !" 
The  house  draped  itself  in  quiet.  Until  ten  had  struck,  and 
footsteps  had  ascended  to  the  rooms  overhead,  I  kept  close  in  my 
bedchamber.  Then  I  hastily  put  on  my  outdoor  clothes,  shivering 
not  with  cold,  but  with  expectation,  and  sat  down  by  the  fire,  pre- 
pared for  the  least  sound  that  would  prove  that  Fanny  had  not  for- 
gotten our  assignation.  But  I  waited  in  vain.  The  cold  gathered. 
The  vaporous  light  of  the  waning  moon  brightened  in  the  room. 
The  cinders  fainted  to  a  darker  glow.  I  heard  the  kitchc.  clock 
with  its  cracked,  cantankerous  stroke  beat  out  eleven.  Its  solemn 
mate  outside,  who  had  seemingly  lost  his  voice,  ticked  on. 

Hope  died  out  in  me,  leaving  an  almost  physical  nausea,  a 
profound  hatred  of  myself  and  even  of  being  alive.  "Well,"  a 
cold  voice  said  in  my  ear,  "that's  how  we  are  treated ;  that 
112 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

comes  of  those  eyes  we  cannot  forget.  Cheated,  cheated  again, 
my   friend." 

In  those  young  days  disappointment  set  my  heart  aching 
with  a  bitterness  less  easy  to  bear  than  it  is  now.  No  doubt 
I  was  steeped  in  sentimentality  and  folly.  It  was  the  vehemence 
of  this  new  feeling  that  almost  terrified  mc.  J  kit  my  mind 
was  my  world;  it  is  my  only  excuse.  I  could  not  get  out  of 
that  by  merely  turning  a  tiny  key  in  a  Brahma  lock.  Nor 
could  I  betake  myself  to  bed.  How  sleep  in  such  an  inward 
storm   of   reproaches,   humiliation,   and   despised   love? 

I  drew  down  my  veil,  wrapped  my  shawl  closer  round  my 
shoulders,  descended  my  staircase,  and  presently  stood  in  the 
porch  in  confrontation  of  the  night.  Low  on  the  horizon,  at 
evens  with  me  across  space,  and  burning  with  a  limpid  fire, 
hung  my  chosen — Sir  his.  The  sudden  sight  of  him  pouring  his 
brilliance  into  my  eyes  brought  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  He 
was  "cutting  me  dead."  I  brazened  him  down.  I  trod  with  ex- 
quisite caution  down  the  steps,  daring  but  one  fleeting  glance,  as  I 
turned,  at  Fanny's  window.  It  was  blinded,  empty.  Toiling 
on  heavily  up  the  hill,  I  sourly  comforted  myself  with  the  vow 
that  she  should  realize  how  little  I  cared,  that  her  room  had 
been  sweeter  than  her  company.  Never  more  would  I  put 
trust  in  "any  child  of  man." 

Gradually,  however,  the  quiet  night  received  me  into  its  peace 
(just  as,  poor  soul,  did  the  Moor  Desdemona),  and  its  influence 
stole  into  my  darkened  mind.  The  smooth,  columnar  boughs 
of  the  beeches  lifted  themselves  archingly  into  the  sky.  Soon 
I  was  climbing  over  the  moss-bound  roots  of  my  customary  ob- 
servatory. But  this  night  the  stars  were  left  for  a  while  un- 
signalled  and  unadmired.  The  crisped,  frost-lined  leaves  scattered 
between  the  snake-like  roots  sparkled  faintly.  Years  seemed  to 
have  passed  away,  dwindled  in  Time's  hour-glass,  since  my  previ- 
ous visit.  That  Miss  M.  had  ghosted  herself  away  for  ever.  In 
my  reverie  the  vision  of  Fanny  re-arose  into  my  imagination — 
that  secret  still  fountain — of  herself.  Asleep  now.  ...  I 
could  no  more  free  myself  from  her  sorcery  than  I  could  dis- 
claim the  two  hands  that  lay  in  my  lap.  She  was  indeed  more 
closely    mine    than    they — and    nearer    in    actuality    than     1    had 


imagined. 


113 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

A  faint  stir  in  the  woods  suddenly  caught  my  attention.  The 
sound  neared.  I  pressed  my  hand  to  my  breast,  torn  now  between 
two  incentives,  two  desires — to  fly,  to  stay.  And  on  the  path 
by  which  I  had  come,  appeared,  some  yards  distant,  in  the  faint 
trickling  light,  the  dark  figure  of  my  dreams. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  black  cloak,  its  peaked  old-fashioned 
hood  drawn  over  her  head.  The  moonbeams  struck  its  folds  as 
she  moved.  Her  face  was  bowed  down  a  little,  her  hand  from 
within  clutching  her  cloak  together.  And  I  realized  instinctively 
and  with  joy  that  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  woods  alarmed 
her.  It  was  I  who  was  calm  and  self-contained.  She  paused  and 
looked  around  her — stood  listening  with  lips  divided  that  yet 
could  not  persuade  themselves  to  call  me  by  name.  For  my 
part,  I  softly  gathered  myself  closer  together  and  continued 
to  gloat.  And  suddenly  out  of  the  far-away  of  the  woods  a 
nightbird    loosed    its    cry:     "A-hoo.  .  .  .     Ahoo-oo-oo-hooh !" 

There  is  a  hunter  in  us  all.  I  laughed  inwardly  as  I  watcned. 
A  few  months  more  and  I  was  to  watch  a  lion-tamer  .  .  .  but 
let  me  keep  to  one  thing  at  a  time.  I  needled  myself  in,  and, 
almost  hooting  the  sound  through  my  mouth,  as  if  in  echo  of 
the  bird,  I  heard  myself  call  stealthily  across  the  air,  "Fanny ! 
— Fanny  Bowater !" 

The  cloaked  figure  recoiled,  with  lifted  head,  like  the  picture 
of  a  fawn  I  have  seen,  and  gazed  in  my  direction.  Seeing 
nothing  of  me  amidst  the  leaves  and  shadows,  she  was  about 
to  flee,  when  I  called  again : — 

"It  is  I,  Fanny.     Here  :  here !" 

Instantly  she  woke  to  herself,  came  near,  and  looked  down 
on  me.  No  movement  welcomed  her.  "I  was  tired  of  waiting," 
I  yawned.     "There  is  nothing  to  be  frightened  about." 

Many  of  her  fellow  creatures,  I  fancy,  have  in  their  day 
wearied  of  waiting  for  Fanny  Bowater,  but  few  have  had  the 
courage  or  sagacity  to  tell  her  so.  She  had  not  recovered  her 
equanimity  fully  enough  to  refrain  from  excuses. 

"Surely  you  did  not  expect  me  while  mother  was  moving? 
I  am  not  accustomed,  Miss  M.,  to  midnight  wanderings." 

"I  gave  up  expecting  you,  and  was  glad  to  be  alone." 

The  barb  fell  short.  She  looked  stilly  around  her.  The  solemn 
beeches  were  like  mute  giants  overarching  with  their  starry, 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

sky-hung  boughs  the  dark,  slim  figure.  What  consciousness  had 
they,  I  wonder,  of  those  odd  humans  at  their  root>? 

"Alone!  Here!"  she  returned.  ''But  no  wonder.  It's  what 
you  are  all  about." 

A  peculiar  elation  sprang  up  in  me  at  this  none  too  intelligible 
remark. 

"I  wonder,  though,"  she  added,  "you  are  not  frozen  like — 
like  a  pebble,  sitting  there." 

"But  I  am,"  I  said,  laughing  so'ftly.  "It  doesn't  matter  in 
me,  because  I'm  so  easy  to  thaw.  You  ought  to  know  that. 
Oh,  Miss  Bowater,  think  if  this  were  summer  time  and  the 
dew  and  the  first  burning  heat!  Are  you  wrapped  up?  And 
shall  we  sit  here,  just — just  for  one  dance  of  the  Sisters:  thou 
lost  dove,  Merope?" 

For  there  on  high — and  I  had  murmured  the  last  words  all 
but  inaudibly  to  myself — there  played  the  spangling  Pleiads, 
clear  above  her  head  in  the  twig-swept  sky. 

"What  sisters?"  she  inquired,  merely  humouring  me,  perhaps. 

"The  Six,  Fanny,  look !  You  cannot  see  their  Seventh — 
yet  she  is  all  that  that  is  about."  South  to  north  I  swept  my 
hand  across  the  powdery  firmament.  "And  I  myself  trudge 
along  down  Watling  Street;  that's  the  Milky  Way.  I  don't 
think,  Fanny,  I  shall  ever,  ever  be  weaned.  Please,  may  I 
call  you  that?" 

She  frowned  up  a  moment  into  the  emptiness,  hesitated,  then 
— just  like  a  white  peacock  I  had  once  seen  when  a  child  from 
my  godmother's  ancient  carriage  as  we  rolled  by  an  old  low 
house  with  terraces  smooth  as  velvet  beneath  its  cedars — she 
disposed  her  black  draperies  upon  the  ground  at  a  little  distance, 
disclosing,  in  so  doing,  beneath  their  folds  the  moon-blanched 
flounces  of  her  party  gown.  I  gazed  spellbound.  I  looked  at 
the  white  and  black,  and  thought  of  what  there  was  within  their 
folds,  and  of  the  heart  within  that,  and  of  the  spirit  of  man. 
Such  was  my  foolish  fashion,  following  idly  like  a  butterfly 
the  scents  of  the  air,  flitting  on  from  thought  to  thought,  and 
so  missing  the  full  richness  of  the  one  blossom  on  which  I  might 
have  hovered. 

"Tell  me  some  more,"  broke  suddenly  the  curious  voice  into 
the  midst  of  this  reverie. 

"Well,   there,"   I   cried,   "is   fickle   Algol;   the    Demon.     And 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

over  there  where  the  Crab  crawls,  is  the  little  Beehive  between 
the  Roses." 

"Prsesepe,"  drawled  Fanny. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  unabashed,  "the  Beehive.  And  crane  back 
your  neck,  Fanny — there's  little  Jack-by-the-Middle-Horse ;  and 
far  down,  oh,  far  down,  Berenice's  Hair,  which  would  have 
been  Fanny  Bo  water's  Hair,  if  you  had  been  she." 

Even  as  I  looked,  a  remote  film  of  mist  blotted  out  the  in- 
finitesimal cluster.  "And  see,  beyond  the  Chair,"  I  went  on, 
laughing,  and  yet  exalted  with  my  theme,  "that  dim  in  the  Girdle 
is  the  Great  Nebula — s-sh !  And  on,  on,  that  chirruping  In- 
visible, that,  Fanny,  is  the  Midget.  Perhaps  you  cannot  even 
dream  of  her:  but  she  watches." 

"Never  even  heard  of  her,"  said  Fanny  good-humouredly, 
withdrawing  the  angle  of  her  chin  from  the  Ecliptic. 

"Say  not  so,  Horatia,"  I  mocked,  "  there  are  more  things  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that.  And  these  cold,  monotonous 
old  things  really  please  you?  Personally,  I'd  give  the  whole 
meaningless  scramble  of  them  for  another  moon." 

"But  your  old  glutton  has  gobbled  up  half  of  them  al- 
ready." 

"Then  my  old  glutton  can  gobble  up  what's  left.  Who  taught 
you  about  them?  And  why,"  she  scanned  me  closely,  "why 
did   you   pick   out  the    faintest;   do   you    see   them   the   best?" 

"I  picked  out  the  faintest  because  they  were  meant  especially 
for  me  so  that  I  could  give  them  to  you.  My  father  taught 
me  a  little  about  them ;  and  your,  father  the  rest." 

'My  father,"  echoed  Fanny,  her  face  suddenly  intent. 

'His  book.     Do  you  miss  him?     Mine  is  dead." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  miss  him,"  was  the  serene  retort,  "and  so,  I  fancy, 
does  mother." 

"Oh,  Fanny,  I  am  sorry.     She  told  me — something  like  that." 

"You  need  not  be.  I  suppose  God  chooses  one's  parents 
quite  deliberately.  Praise  Him  from  Whom  all  blessings  flow!" 
She  smoothed  out  her  black  cloak  over  her  ankles,  raised  her 
face  again  into  the  dwindling  moonlight,  and  gently  smiled  at 
me.  "I  am  glad  I  came,  Midgetina,  though  it's  suicidally  cold. 
'Pardi!  on  sent  Dieu  bien  a  son  aise  ici.'  We  are  going  to  be 
great  friends,  aren't  we?"  Her  eyes  swept  over  me.  "Would 
you  like  that?" 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Friends,"  indeed!  and  as  if  she  had  offered  me  a  lump  of 
sugar. 

I  gravely  nodded.  "But  I  must  come  to  you.  You  can't 
come  to  me.     No  one  has;  except,  perhaps,  my  mother — a  little." 

"<  >h,  yes,"  she  replied  cautiously,  piercing  her  eyes  at  me, 
"that  is  a  riddle.  You  must  tell  me  about  your  childhood.  Not 
that  I  love  children,  or  my  own  childhood  either.  I  had  enough 
of  that  to  last  me  a  lifetime.  I  shan't  pass  it  on;  though  I 
promise  you,  Midgetina,  if  I  ever  do  have  a  baby,  I  will  anoint 
its  little  backbone  with  the  grease  of  moles,  bats,  and  dormice, 

rind  make  it  like  you.     Was  your  mother "  she  began  again, 

after  a  pause  of  reflection.     "Are  you  sorry,  I  mean,  you  aren't 
— you  aren't ?" 

Her  look  supplied  the  missing  words.  "Sorry  that  I  am  a 
midget,  Fanny?  People  think  I  must  be.  But  why?  It  is 
all  I  am,  all  I  ever  was.  I  am  myself,  inside;  like  everybody 
else ;  and  yet,  you  know,  not  quite  like  everybody  else.  I  some- 
times think" — I  laughed  at  the  memory — "I  was  asking  Dr  Phelps 
about  that.     Besides,  would  you  be — alone?" 

"Not  when  I  was  alone,  perhaps.  Still,  it  must  be  rather 
odd,  Miss  Needle-in-a-Haystack.  As  for  being  alone" — once 
again  our  owl,  if  owl  it  was,  much  nearer  now,  screeched  its 
screech  in  the  wintry  woods — "I  hate  it!" 

"But  surely,"  expostulated  the  wiseacre  in  me,  "that's  what 
we  cannot  help  being.     We  even  die  alone,  Fanny." 

"Oh,  but  I'm  going  to  help  it.  I'm  not  dead  yet.  Do  you 
ever  think  of  the  future?" 

For  an  instant  its  great  black  hole  yawned  close,  but  I  shook 
my  head. 

"Well,  that,"  replied  she,  "is  what  Fanny  Bowater  is  doing  all 
the  time.  There's  nothing,"  she  added  satirically,  "so  important, 
so  imperative  for  teachers  as  learning.  And  you  must  learn 
your  lesson,  my  dear,  before  you  are  heard  it — if  you  want  to 
escape  a  slapping.     Every  little  donkey  knows  that." 

"I  suppose  the  truth  is,"  said  I,  as  if  seized  with  a  bright 
idea,  "there  are  two  kinds  of  ambitions,  of  wants,  I  mean.  We 
are  all  like  those  Chinese  boxes ;  and  some  of  us  want  to  live 
in  the  biggest,  the  outsidest  we  can  possibly  manage ;  and  some 
in  the  inmost  one  of  all.  The  one,"  I  added  a  little  drearily, 
"no  one  can  share." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Quite,  quite  true,"  said  Fanny,  mimicking  my  sententious- 
ness,  "the  teeniest,  tiniest,  icklest  one,  which  no  mortal  ingenuity 
has  ever  been  able  to  open — and  so  discover  the  nothing  inside. 
/  know  your  Chinese  Boxes !" 

"Poor  Fanny,"  I  cried,  rising  up  and  kneeling  beside  the  ice- 
cold  hand  that  lay  on  the  frosty  leaves.  "All  that  I  have  shall 
help  you." 

Infatuated  thing;  I  stooped  low  as  I  knelt,  and  stroked  softly 
with  my  own  the  outstretched  fingers  on  which  she  was  leaning. 

I  might  have  been  a  pet  animal  for  all  the  heed  she  paid  to 
my  caress.  "Fanny,"  I  whispered  tragically,  "will  you  please 
sing  to  me — if  you  are  not  frozenly  cold?  You  remember — the 
Moon  Song:  I  have  never  forgotten  it;  and  only  three  notes, 
yet  it  sometimes  wakes  me  at  night.  It's  queer,  isn't  it,  being 
you  and  me?" 

She  laughed,  tilting  her  chin ;  and  her  voice  began  at  once 
to  sing,  as  if  at  the  scarcely  opened  door  of  her  throat,  and  a 
tune  so  plain  it  seemed  but  the  words  speaking: — 

"  'Twas  a   Cuckoo,  cried  'cuck-oo' 
In  the  youth  of  the  year; 
And  the  timid  things  nesting, 
Crouched,  ruffled  in  fear; 
And  the   Cuckoo  cried,   'cuck-oo/ 
For  the  honest  to  hear. 

One — two  notes :  a  bell  sound 
In  the  blue  and  the  green ; 
'Cuck-oo:  cuck-oo:  cuck-oo!' 
And  a  silence  between. 

Ay,  mistress,  have  a  care,  lest 
Harsh  love,  he  hie  by, 
And  for  kindness  a  monster 
To  nourish  you  try — 
In  your  bosom  to  lie: 
'Cuck-oo/  and  a  'cuck-oo/ 
And  'cuck-oo!'" 

The  sounds  fell  like  beads  into  the  quiet — as  if  a  small  child 
had  come  up  out  of  her  heart  and  gone  down  again ;  and  she 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

callous  and  unmoved.  I  cannot  say  why  the  clear,  muted  notes 
saddened  and  thrilled  me  so.     Was  she  the  monster? 

1  had  drawn  hack,  and  stayed  eyeing  her  pale  face,  the  high 
cheek,  the  delicate  straight  nose,  the  darkened  lips,  the  slim  black 
eyebrows,  the  light,  clear,  unfathomable  eyes  reflecting  the  solitude 
and  the  thin  brilliance  of  the  wood.  Yet  the  secret  of  herself 
remained  her  own.  She  tried  in  vain  not  to  he  disturbed  at  my 
scrutiny. 

"Well,"  she  inquired  at  last,  with  motionless  glance  fixed  on 
the  distance.  "Do  you  think  you  could  honestly  give  me  a 
testimonial,  Miss  Midget?" 

It  is  strange.  The  Sphinx  had  spoken,  yet  without  much 
enlightenment.  "Now  look  at  me."  I  commanded.  "If  1  went 
away,  you  couldn't  follow.  When  you  go  away,  you  cannot 
escape  from  me.  1  can  go  back  and — and  be  where  I  was."  My 
own  meaning  was  half -concealed  from  me;  but  a  startled  some- 
thing that  had  not  been  there  before  peeped  out  of  those  eyes  so 
close  to  mine. 

"If,"  she  said,  "I  could  care  like  that  too,  yet  wanted  nothing, 
then  I  should  be  free  too." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  I,  lifting  my  hand  from  the  un- 
answering  fingers. 

"I  mean,"  she  exclaimed,  leaping  to  her  feet,  "that  I'm  sick 
to  death  of  the  stars  and  am  going  home  to  bed.  Hateful,  listen- 
ing old  woods !" 

I  turned  sharp  round,  as  if  in  apprehension  that  some  secret 
hearer  might  have  caught  her  remark.  Hut  Fanny  stretched 
out  her  arms,  and,  laughing  a  foolish  tune,  in  affected  abandon- 
ment began  softly  to  dance  in  the  crisp  leaves,  quite  lost  to  me 
again.  So  twirling,  she  set  off  down  the  path  by  which  she  had 
come  trespassing.  A  physical  exhaustion  came  over  me.  I 
watched  her  no  more,  but  stumbled  along,  with  unheeding  eyes, 
in  her  wake.  What  had  I  not  given,  I  thought  bitterly,  and 
this  my  reward.  Thus  solitary,  I  had  gone  only  a  little  distance, 
and  had  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  when  a  far  from 
indifferent  Fanny  came  hastening  hack   to  intercept  me. 

And  no  wonder.  She  had  remembered  to  attire  herself  be- 
comingly for  her  moonlight  tryst,  but  had  forgotten  the  door 
key.  We  stood  looking  at  one  another  aghast,  as,  from  eternity. 
I  suppose,  have  all  fellow-conspirators  in  danger  of  discovery. 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

It  was  I  who  first  awoke  to  action.  There  was  but  one  thing  to 
be  done,  and,  warning  Fanny  that  I  had  never  before  attempted 
to  unlatch  the  big  front  door  of  her  mother's  house,  I  set  off 
resolutely  down  the  hill. 

"You  walk  so  slowly !"  she  said  suddenly,  turning  back  on  me. 
"I  will  carry  you." 

Again  we  paused.  I  looked  up  at  her  with  an  inextricable  med- 
ley of  emotions  struggling  together  in  my  mind,  and  shook  my 
head. 

"But  why,  why?"  she  repeated  impatiently.  "We  could  get 
there  in  half  the  time." 

"If  you  could  fly,  Fanny,  I'd  walk,"  I  replied  stubbornly. 

"You  mean "  and  her  cold  anger  distorted  her  face.     "Oh, 

pride!  What  childish  nonsense!  And  you  said  we  were  to  be 
friends.  Do  you  suppose  I  care  whether  ...  ?"  But  the  ques- 
tion remained  unfinished. 

"I  am  your  friend,"  said  I,  "and  that  is  why  I  will  not,  I 
will  not  give  way  to  you."  It  was  hardly  friendship  that  gleamed 
out  of  the  wide  eyes  then.  But  mine  the  victory — a  victory 
in  which  only  a  tithe  of  the  spoils,  unrecognized  by  the  van- 
quished, had  fallen  to  the  victor. 

Without  another  word  she  turned  on  her  heel,  and  for  the 
rest  of  our  dejected  journey  she  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
a  cross  nurse  trailing  on  pace  for  pace  beside  a  rebellious  child. 
My  dignity  was  less  ruffled  than  hers,  however,  and  for  a  brief 
while  I  had  earned  my  freedom. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  dumbly  hostile  in  the  luminous  night, 
Fanny  concealed  herself  as  best  she  could  behind  the  gate-post 
and  kept  watch  on  the  windows.  Far  away  in  the  stillness  we 
heard  a  footfall  echoing  on  the  hill.  "There  is  some  one  coming," 
she  whispered,  "you  must  hurry."  She  might,  I  think,  have 
serpented  her  way  in  by  my  own  little  door.  Where  the  head 
leads,  the  heart  may  follow.  But  she  did  not  suggest  it.  Nor 
did  I. 

I  tugged  and  pushed  as  best  I  could,  but  the  umbrella  with 
which  from  a  chair  I  at  last  managed  to  draw  the  upper  bolt 
of  the  door  was  extremely  cumbersome.  The  latch  for  a  while 
resisted  my  efforts.  And  the  knowledge  that  Fanny  was  fretting 
and  fuming  behind  the  gatepost  hardly  increased  my  skill.  The 
house  was  sunken  in  quiet;  Mrs  Bowater  apparently  was  sleeping 
1 20 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

without  her  usual  accompaniment ;  only  J  Ienry  shared  my  labours, 
and  he  sat  moodily  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  refusing  to  draw 
near  until  at  the  same  moment  Fanny  entered,  and  he  leapt  out. 

Once  safely  within,  and  the  door  closed  and  bolted  again,  Fanny 
stood  for  a  few  moments  listening.  Then  with  a  sigh  and  a 
curious  gesture  she  bent  herself  and  kissed  the  black  veil  that 
concealed  my  fair  hair. 

"I  am  sorry,  Midgetina,"  she  whispered  into  its  folds,  "I  was 
impatient.  Mother  wouldn't  have  liked  the  astronomy,  you 
know.     That    was    all.     And    I    am    truly    sorry    for — for — 

"My  dear,"  I  replied  in  firm,  elderly  tones,  whose  echo  is 
in  my  ear  to  this  very  day;  "My  dear,  it  was  my  mind  you  hurt, 
not  my  feelings."  With  that  piece  of  sententiousness  I  scrambled 
blindly  through  my  Bates's  doorway,  shut  the  door  behind  me, 
and  more  disturbed  at  heart  than  I  can  tell,  soon  sank  into  the 
thronging  slumber  of  the  guilty  and  the  obsessed. 


121 


Chapter    Fourteen 


WHEN  my  eyes  opened  next  morning,  a  strange,  still  glare 
lay  over  the  ceiling,  and  I  looked  out  of  my  window  on 
a  world  mantled  and  cold  with  snow.  For  a  while  I 
forgot  the  fever  of  the  last  few  days  in  watching  the  birds  hopping 
and  twittering  among  the  crumbs  that  Mrs  Bo  water  scattered 
out  on  the  windowsill  for  my  pleasure.  And  yet — their  every 
virtue,  every  grace,  Fanny  Bowater,  all  were  thine !  The  very 
snow,  in  my  girlish  fantasy,  was  the  fairness  beneath  which  the 
unknown  Self  in  her  must,  as  I  fondly  believed,  lie  slumbering;  a 
beauty  that  hid  also  from  me  for  a  while  the  restless,  self- 
centred  mind.  How  believe  that  such  beauty  is  any  the  less  a  gift 
to  its  possessor  than  its  bespeckled  breast  and  song  to  a  thrush, 
its  sheen  to  a  starling?  It  is  a  riddle  that  still  baffles  me.  If 
we  are  all  shut  up  in  our  bodies  as  the  poets  and  the  Scriptures 
say  we  are,  then  how  is  it  that  many  of  the  loveliest  seem  to  be 
all  but  uninhabited,  or  to  harbour  such  dingy  tenants ;  while  quite 
plain  faces  may  throng  with  animated  ghosts  ? 

Fanny  did  not  come  to  share  my  delight  in  the  snow  that 
morning.  And  as  I  looked  out  on  it,  waiting  on  in  vain,  hope 
flagged,  and  a  sadness  stole  over  its  beauty.  Probably  she  had 
not  given  the  fantastic  lodger  a  thought.  She  slid  through  life, 
it  seemed,  as  easily  as  a  seal  through  water.  But  I  was  not  the 
only  friend  who  survived  her  caprices.  In  spite  of  her  warning 
about  the  dish-washing,  Mr  Crimble  came  to  see  her  that  after- 
noon. She  was  out.  With  a  little  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand 
he  paused  at  the  gate-post  to  push  his  spectacles  more  firmly 
on  to  his  nose  and  cast  a  kind  of  homeless  look  over  the  fields 
before  turning  his  face  towards  St  Peter's.  Next  day,  Holy 
Innocents',  he  came  again ;  but  this  time  with  more  determina- 
tion, for  he  asked  to  see  mc. 

To  rid  myself,  as  far  as  possible,  of  one  piece  of  duplicity, 
I  at  once  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  in  the  presence  of 
Mrs  Bowater  boldly  invited  him  to  stay  to  tea.  With  a  flurried 
122 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

glance  of  the   eye  in   her   direction   he  accepted   my   invitation. 

"A  cold  afternoon,  Mrs  Bowater,"  he  intoned.  "The  cup 
that  cheers,   the  cup  that  cheers." 

My  landlady  left  the  conventions  to  take  care  of  themselves; 
and  presently  he  and  I  found  ourselves  positively  tetc-a-tcte  over 
her  seed  cake  and  thin  bread  and  butter. 

But  though  we  both  set  to  work  to  make  conversation,  an 
absent  intentness  in  his  manner,  a  listening  turn  of  his  head, 
hinted  that  his  thoughts  were  not  wholly  with  me. 

"Are  you  long  with  us?"  he  inquired,  stirring  his  tea. 

"I  am  quite,  quite  happy  here,"  I  replied,  with  a  sigh. 

"Ah !"  he  replied,  a  little  wistfully,  taking  a  sip,  "how  few 
of  us  have  the  courage  to  confess  that.  Perhaps  it  flatters  us 
to  suppose  we  are  miserable.  It  is  this  pessimism — of  a  mechani- 
cal, a  scientific  age — which  we  have  chiefly  to  contend  again -t. 
We  don't  often  see  you  at  St  Peter's,  I  think?" 

"You  wouldn't  see  very  much  of  me,  if  I  did  come,"  I  replied 
a  little  tartly.  Possibly  it  was  his  "we"  that  had  fretted  me. 
It  seemed  needlessly  egotistical.  "On  the  other  hand,"  I  added, 
"wouldn't  there  be  a  risk  of  the  congregation  seeing  nothing 
else?" 

Mr  Crimble  opened  his  mouth  and  laughed.  "I  wish,"  he 
said,  with  a  gallant  little  bow,  "there  were  more  like  you." 

"More  like  me,  Mr  Crimble?" 

"I  mean,"  he  explained,  darting  a  glance  at  the  furniture  of 
my  bedroom,  whose  curtains,  to  my  annoyance,  hung  withdrawn, 
"I  mean  that — that  you — that  so  many  of  us  refuse  to  see 
the  facts  of  life.  To  look  them  in  the  face,  Miss  M.  There 
is  nothing  to  fear." 

We  were  getting  along  famously,  and  I  begged  him  to  take 
some  of  Mrs  Bowater's  black  currant  jam. 

"But  then,  I  have  plenty  of  time,"  I  said  agreeably.  "And 
the  real  difficulty  is  to  get  the  facts  to  face  me.  Dear  me,  if 
only,  now,  I  had  some  of  Miss  Bowater's  brains." 

A  veil  seemed  suddenly  to  lift  from  his  face  and  as  suddenly 
to  descend  again.  So,  too,  he  had  for  a  moment  stopped  eating, 
then  as  suddenly  begun  eating  again. 

"Ah,  Miss  Bowater!  She  is  indeed  clever;  a — a  brilliant 
young  lady.  The  very  life  of  a  party,  I  assure  you.  And, 
yet,   do   you   know,   in   parochial   gatherings,   try   as    I   may,    I 

123 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

occasionally  find  it  very  difficult  to  get  people  to  mix.  The  little 
social  formulas,  the  prejudices.  Yet,  surely,  Miss  M.,  religion 
should  be  the  great  solvent.     At  least,  that  is  my  view." 

He  munched  away  more  vigorously,  and  gazed  through  his 
spectacles  out  through  my  window-blinds. 

"Mixing  people  must  be  very  wearisome,"  I  suggested,  ex- 
amining his  face. 

1  'Wearisome,' "  he  repeated  blandly.  "I  am  sometimes  at 
my  wits'  end.  No.  A  curate's  life  is  not  a  happy  one."  Yet 
he  confessed  it  almost  with  joy. 

"And  the  visiting!"  I  said.  And  then,  alas!  my  tongue  began 
to  run  away  with  me.  He  was  falling  back  again  into  what 
I  may  call  his  company  voice,  and  I  pined  to  talk  to  the  real 
Mr  Crimble,  little  dreaming  how  soon  that  want  was  to  be  sa- 
tiated. 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  do  you  know,  if  religion  is  made  difficult 
enough." 

"But  I  assure  you,"  he  replied,  politely  but  firmly,  "a  true 
religion  is  exceedingly  difficult.  'The  eye  of  a  needle' — we 
mustn't  forget  that." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  I  warmly;  "that  'eye'  will  be  narrow  enough 
even  for  a  person  with  my  little  advantages.  I  remember  my 
mother's  cook  telling  me,  when  I  was  a  child,  that  in  the  old 
days,  really  wicked  people  if  they  wanted  to  return  to  the  Church, 
had  to  do  so  in  a  sheet,  with  ashes  on  their  heads,  you  know, 
and  carrying  a  long  lighted  candle.  She  said  that  if  the  door 
was  shut  against  them,  they  died  in  torment,  and  went  to  Hell. 
But  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  like  my  grandmother." 

Mr  Crimble  peered  at  me  as  if  over  a  wall. 

"I  remember,  too,"  I  went  on,  "one  summer's  day  as  a  very 
little  girl  I  was  taken  to  the  evening  service.  And  the  singing 
— bursting  out  like  that,  you  know,  with  the  panting  and  the 
yowling  of  the  organ,  made  me  faint  and  sick;  and  I  jumped 
right  out  of  the  window." 

"Jumped  out'  of  the  window !"  cried  my  visitor  in  conster- 
nation. 

"Yes,  we  were  at  the  back.  Pollie,  my  nursemaid,  had  put 
me  up  in  the  niche,  you  see;  and  I  dragged  her  hand  away. 
But  I  didn't  hurt  myself.  The  grass  was  thick  in  the  church- 
124 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

yard;  I  fell  light,  and  I  had  plenty  of  clothes  on.  I  rather 
enjoyed  it — the  air  and  the  tombstones.  And  though  I  had 
my  gasps,  the  'eye'  seemed  big  enough  when  I  was  a  child. 
But  afterwards — when  I  was  confirmed — I  thought  of  Hell  a 
-odd  deal.  I  can't  see  it  so  plainly  now.  Wide,  low.  and  black, 
with  a  few  demons.     That  can't  be  right." 

"My  dear  young  lady!''  cried  Mr  I  'limbic,  as  if  shocked,  "is  it 
wise  to  attempt  it?  It  must  be  admitted,  of  course,  that  if  we  do 
not  take  advantage  of  the  benefits  bestowed  upon  us  by  Providence 
in  a  Christian  community,  we  cannot  escape  His  displeasure. 
The  absence  from  His  Love." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  looking  at  him  in  sudden  intimacy,  "I  believe 
that."  And  I  pondered  a  while,  following  up  my  own  thoughts. 
"Maw  you  ever  read  Mr  Clodd's  Childhood  of  the  World,  Mr 
Crimble  ?" 

By  the  momentary  confusion  of  his  face  I  gathered  that  he  had 
not.     "Mr  Oodd?  .  .  .     Ah,  yes,  the  writer  on  Primitive  Man." 

"This  was  only  a  little  book,  for  the  young,  you  know.  But  in 
it  Mr  Clodd  says,  I  remember,  that  even  the  most  shocking  old 
forms  of  religion  were  not  invented  by  devils.  They  were  'Man's 
struggles  from  darkness  to  twilight.'  What  he  meant  was  that  no 
man  loves  darkness.  At  least,"  I  added,  with  a  sudden  gush  of  re- 
membrances, "not  without  the  stars." 

"That  is  exceedingly  true,"  replied  Mr  Crimble.  "And,  talking 
of  stars,  what  a  wonderful  sight  it  was  the  night  before  last,  the 
whole  heavens  one  spangle  of  diamonds!  I  was  returning  from 
visiting  a  sick  parishioner,  Mr  Hubbins."  Then  it  was  his  foot  that 
Fanny  and  I  had  heard  reverberating  on  the  hill !  I  hastily  hid 
my  face  in  my  cup,  but  he  appeared  not  to  have  noticed  my  con- 
fusion. He  took  another  slice  of  bread  and  butter ;  folded  it  care- 
fully in  two,  then  peered  up  out  of  the  corner  of  his  round  eye  at 
me,  and  added  solemnly :     "Sick,  I  regret  to  say,  no  longer." 

"Dead  ?"  I  cried  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and  again  looked 
at  him. 

Then  my  eyes  strayed  to  the  silent  scene  beyond  the  window, 
silent,  it  seemed,  with  the  very  presence  of  poor  Mr  Hubbins.  "I 
should  not  like  to  go  to  Hell  in  the  snow,"  I  said  ruminatingly. 
Out  of  the  past  welled  into  memory  an  old  ballad  my  mother  had 


taught  me  :- 


125 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


"This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte 

— Every  nighte  and  allc, 
Fire   and   sleet   and   candle-lighte, 
And  Christc  receive  thy  saide !" 

"Beautiful,  beautiful,"  murmured  Mr  Crimble,  yet  not  without 
a  trace  of  alarm  in  his  dark  eyes.  "But  believe  me,  I  am  not  sug- 
gesting that  Mr  Hubbins His  was,  I  am  told,  a  wonderfully 

peaceful  end." 

"Peaceful!  Oh,  but  surely  not  in  his  mind,  Mr  Crimble.  Surely 
one  must  be  more  alive  in  that  last  hour  than  ever — just  when 
one's  going  away.  At  any  rate,"  and  I  couldn't  refrain  a  sigh, 
almost  of  envy,  "I  hope  /  shall  be.  Was  Mr  Hubbins  a  good 
man?" 

"He  was  a  most  regular  church-goer,"  replied  my  visitor  a  little 
unsteadily ;  "a  family-man,  one  of  our  Sidesmen,  in  fact.  He  will 
be  greatly  missed.  You  may  remember  what  Mr  Ruskin  wrote 
of  his  father :  'Here  lies  an  entirely  honest  merchant.'  Mr  Rus- 
kin, senior,  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  the  wine  trade.  Mr  Hub- 
bins,  I  believe,  was  in  linen,  though,  of  course,  it  amounts  to  the 
same  thing.  But  haven't  we,"  and  he  cleared  his  throat,  "haven't 
we — er — strayed  into  a  rather  lugubrious  subject?" 

"We  have  strayed  into  a  rather  lugubrious  world,"  said  I. 

"Of  course,  of  course ;  but,  believe  me,  we  mustn't  always  think 
too  closely.  'Days  and  moments  quickly  flying,'  true  enough, 
though  hardly  appropriate,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  at  this  particular 
season  in  the  Christian  year.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  'we  may 
make  our  lives  sublime.'  Does  not  yet  another  poet  tell  us  that? 
Although,  perhaps,  Mr  Hub " 

"Yes,"  I  interposed  eagerly,  the  lover  of  books  in  me  at  once 
rising  to  the  bait,  "but  what  do  you  think  Longfellow  absolutely 
■meant  by  his  'sailor  on  the  main'  of  life  being  comforted,  you 
remember,  by  somebody  else  having  been  shipwrecked  and  just 
leaving  footprints  in  the  sand?  I  used  to  wonder  and  wonder. 
Does  the  poem  imply,  Mr  Crimble,  that  merely  to  be  born  is  to  be 
shipwrecked?  I  don't  think  that  can  be  so,  because  Longfellow 
was  quite  a  cheerful  man,  wasn't  he? — at  least  for  a  poet.  For 
my  part,"  I  ran  on,  now  thoroughly  at  home  with  my  visitor,  and 
on  familiar  ground,  "I  am  sure  I  prefer  poor  Friday.  Do  you  re- 
member how  Robinson  Crusoe  described  him  soon  after  the  rescue 
126 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

from  the  savages  as  'without  Passions,  Sullenness,  or  Designs,' 
even  though  he  did,  poor  thing,  'have  a  hankering  stomach  after 
some  of  the  Flesh'?  Not  that  I  mean  to  suggest,"  I  added  hastily, 
"that  Mr  Hubbins  was  in  any  sense  a  cannibal." 

"By  no  means,"  said  Mr  Crimble  helplessly.  "But  there,"  and 
he  brushed  his  knees  with  his  handkerchief,  "I  fear  you  are  too 
much  of  a  reader  for  me,  and — and  critic.  For  that  very  reason 
I  do  hope,  Miss  M.,  you  will  sometimes  contrive  to  pay  a  visit  to 
St  Peter's.  Mother  Church  has  room  for  all,  you  know,  in  her — 
about  her  footstool."  He  smiled  at  me  very  kindly.  "And  our 
organist,  Mr  Temple,  has  been  treating  us  to  some  charmingly 
quaint  old  carols — at  least  the  words  seem  a  little  quaint  to  a  mod- 
ern ear.  But  I  cannot  boast  of  being  a  student  of  poetry. 
Parochial  work  leaves  little  time  even  for  the  classics : — 

"Odi   profamim   vulgus,   et   arceo. 
Favete   Unguis  .  .  ." 

He  almost  chirped  the  delightful  words  in  a  high,  pleasant 
voice,  but  except  for  the  first  three  of  them,  they  were  too 
many  for  my  small  Latin,  and  I  afterwards  forgot  to  test  the 
aptness  of  his  quotation.  I  was  just  about  to  ask  him  (with 
some  little  unwillingness)  to  translate  the  whole  ode  for  me, 
when  I  heard  Fanny's  step  at  the  door.     I  desisted. 

At  her  entry  the  whole  of  our  conversation,  as  it  hung  about 
in  Mrs  Bowater's  firelit  little  parlour,  seemed  to  have  become 
threadbare  and  meaningless.  My  visitor  and  I  turned  away 
from  each  other  almost  with  relief — like  Longfellow's  ship- 
wrecked sailors,  perhaps,  at  sight  of  a  ship. 

Fanny's  pale  cheeks  beneath  her  round  beaver  hat  and  veil 
were  bright  with  the  cold — for  frost  had  followed  the  snow. 
She  eyed  us  slowly,  with  less  even  than  a  smile  in  her  eyes,  facing 
my  candles  softly,  as  if  she  had  come  out  of  a  dream.  What- 
ever class  of  the  community  Mr  Crimble  may  have  meant 
to  include  in  his  Odi,  the  celerity  with  which  he  rose  to  greet 
her  made  it  perfectly  clear  that  it  was  not  Miss  Bowater's.  Sin- 
smiled  at  the  black  sleeve,  cuff,  and  signet  ring  outstretched 
towards  her,  but  made  no  further  advance.  She  brought  him, 
too,  a  sad  disappointment,  simply  that  she  would  he  unable 
to  sing  at  his  concert  on  the  last   night   of   the   vear.     At   this 

127 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

blow  Mr  Crimble  instinctively  folded  his  hands.  He  looked  help- 
less and  distressed. 

"But,  Miss  Bowater,"  he  pleaded,  "the  printer  has  been  wait- 
ing nearly  two  days  for  the  names  of  your  songs.  The  time 
is  very  short  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Fanny,  seating  herself  on  a  stool  by  the  fire  and 
slowly  removing  her  gloves.  "It  is  annoying.  I  hadn't  a  vestige 
of  a  cold  last  night." 

"But  indeed,  indeed,"  he  began,  "is  it  wise  in  this  severe 
weather ?" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  weather  I  mind,"  was  the  serene  retort, 
"it's  the  croaking  like  a  frog  in  public." 

"'A   frog!'"   cried   Mr   Crimble   beguilingly,    "oh,   no!" 

But  all  his  protestations  and  cajoleries  were  unavailing.  Even 
to  a  long,  silent  glance  so  private  in  appearance  that  it  seemed 
more  courteous  to  turn  away  from  it,  Fanny  made  no  dis- 
cernible response.  His  shoulders  humped.  He  caught  up  his 
soft  hat,  made  his  adieu — a  little  formal,  and  hasty — and  hurried 
off  through  the  door  to  the  printer. 

When  his  muffled  footsteps  had  passed  away,  I  looked  at 
Fanny. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  agreed,  shrugging  her  shoulders,  "it  was  a 
lie.  I  said  it  like  a  lie,  so  that  it  shouldn't  deceive  him.  I 
detest  all  that  wheedling.  To  come  here  two  days  running, 
after.  .  .  .  And  why,  may  I  ask,  if  it  is  beneath  your  dignity 
to  dance  to  the  parish,  is  it  not  beneath  mine  to  sing?  Let 
the  silly  sheep  amuse  themselves  with  their  bleating.  I  have 
done  with  it  all." 

She  rose,  folded  her  gloves  into  a  ball  and  her  veil  over 
her  hat,  and  once  more  faced  her  reflection  in  her  mother's  looking- 
glass.  I  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  her  that  the  expression  she 
wore  on  other  occasions  suited  her  best. 

"But  surely,"  I  argued  uneasily,  "things  are  different.  If  I 
were  to  dance,  stuck  up  there  on  a  platform,  you  know  very 
well  it  would  not  be  the  dancing  that  would  amuse  them,  but 
— just  me.  Would  you  care  for  that  if  you  were — well,  what 
I  am?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know,"  a  low  voice  replied  bitterly,  "you 
don't  know.  The  snobs  they  are !  I  have  soaked  in  it  for  years, 
like  a  pig  in  brine.  Boxed  up  here  in  your  pretty  little  doll's 
128 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

house,  you  suppose  that  all  that  matters  is  what  you  think  of 
other  people.  J  hit  to  he  perfectly  frank,  you  are  out  of  the 
running,  my  dear.  /  have  to  get  my  own  living,  and  all  that 
matters  is  not  what  I  think  of  other  people  hut  what  other 
people  think  of  me.  Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know  what  he, 
in  his  heart,  thinks  of  me — and  all  the  rest  of  them?  Well,  I 
say,  wait !" 

And  she  left  me  to  my  doll's  house — a  more  helpless  slave 
than  ever. 

Not  only  one  "star"  the  fewer,  then,  dazzled  St  Peter' s  parish 
that  New  Year's  Eve,  but  Fanny  and  I  never  again  shared  an 
hour's  practical  astronomy.  Still,  she  would  often  sit  and  talk- 
to  me,  and  the  chain  of  my  devotion  grew  heavy.  Perhaps  she, 
on  her  side,  merely  basked  in  the  flattery  of  my  imagination. 
It  was  for  her  a  new  variety  of  a  familiar  experience.  Perhaps 
a  curious  and  condescending  fondness  for  me  for  a  while  sprang 
up  in  her — as  far  as  that  was  possible,  for,  apart  from  her  in- 
stinctive heartlessness,  she  never  really  accustomed  herself  to  my 
physical  shortcomings.  I  believe  they  attracted  yet  repelled  her. 
To  my  lonely  spirit  she  was  a  dream  that  remained  a  dream  in 
spite  of  its  intensifying  resemblance  to  a  nightmare. 

I  realize  now  that  she  was  desperately  capricious,  of  a  cat- 
like cruelty  by  nature,  and  so  evasive  and  elusive  that  frequently 
I  could  not  distinguish  her  soft,  furry  pads  from  her  claws. 
But  whatever  her  mood,  or  her  treatment  of  me,  or  her  la]' 
into  a  kind  of  commonness  to  which  I  deliberately  shut  my  eyes, 
her  beauty  remained.  Whomsoever  we  love  becomes  unique  in 
that  love,  and  I  suppose  we  are  responsible  for  what  we  give  as 
well  as  for  what  we  accept.  The  very  memory  of  her  beauty, 
when  I  was  alone,  haunted  me  as  intensely  as  if  she  were  present. 
Yet  in  her  actual  company,  it  made  her  in  a  sense  unreal.  So, 
often,  it  was  only  the  ghost  of  her  with  whom  I  -at  and  talked. 
How  sharply  it  would  have  incensed  her  to  know  it.  When  she 
came  to  me  in  my  sleep,  she  was  both  paradise  and  seraph,  and 
never  fiddle  entranced  a  Paganini  as  did  her  liquid  lapsing  voice 
my  small  fastidious  ear.  Yet,  however  much  -he  loved  to  watch 
herself  in  looking-glass  or  in  her  mind,  and  to  observe  her  effects 
on  others,  she  was  not  vain. 

But  the  constant,   unbanishable   thought   of    anything   wearies 

129 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  mind  and  weakens  the  body.  In  my  infatuation,  I,  too,  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  ghost — a  very  childish  ghost  perhaps.  I 
think  if  I  could  call  him  for  witness,  my  small  pasha  in  the 
train  from  Lyndsey  would  bear  me  out  in  this.  As  for  what  is 
called  passion,  the  only  burning  of  it  I  ever  felt  was  for  an 
outcast  with  whom  I  never  shared  so  much  as  glance  or  word. 
Alas,  Fanny,  I  suppose,  was  merely  a  brazen  image. 

Long  before  the  dark  day  of  her  departure — a  day  which  stood 
in  my  thoughts  like  a  barrier  at  the  world's  end — I  had  very 
foolishly  poured  out  most  of  my  memories  for  her  profit  and 
amusement,  though  so  immobile  was  she  when  seated  in  a  chair 
beside  my  table,  or  standing  foot  on  fender  at  the  chimney- 
piece,  that  it  was  difficult  at  times  to  decide  whether  she  was  listen- 
ing to  me  or  not.  What  is  more  important,  she  told  me  in  return 
in  her  curious  tortuous  and  contradictory  fashion,  a  good  deal 
about  herself,  and  of  her  childhood,  which — because  of  the 
endless  violent  roarings  of  her  nautical  father,  and  the  taciturn 
discipline  of  poor  Mrs  Bowater — filled  me  with  compassion  and 
heaped  fuel  on  my  love.  And  not  least  of  these  bonds  was  the 
secret  which,  in  spite  of  endless  temptation,  I  managed  to 
withhold  from  her  in  a  last  instinctive  loyalty  to  Mrs  Bowater 
— the  discovery  that  her  own  mother  was  long  since  dead  and  gone. 

She  possessed  more  brains  than  she  cared  to  exhibit  to  visitors 
like  Dr  Phelps  and  Mr  Crimble.  Even  to  this  day  I  cannot 
believe  that  Mr  Crimble  even  so  much  as  guessed  how  clever 
she  was.  It  was  just  part  of  herself,  like  the  bloom  on  a 
plum.  Hers  was  not  one  of  those  gesticulating  minds.  Her 
efforts  only  intensified  her  Fannyishness.  Oh  dear,  how  simple 
things  are  if  only  you  leave  them  unexplained.  Her  very  knowl- 
edge, too  (which  for  the  most  part  she  kept  to  herself)  was  to 
me  like  finding  chain  armour  when  one  is  in  search  of  a  beating 
heart.  She  could  shed  it  all,  and  her  cleverness  too,  as  easily 
as  a  swan  water-drops.  What  could  she  not  shed,  and  yet  remain 
Fanny?  And  with  all  her  confidences,  she  was  extremely  reticent. 
A  lift  of  the  light  shoulders,  or  of  the  flat  arched  eyebrows,  a 
sarcasm,  a  far-away  smile,  at  the  same  time  illuminated  and 
obscured  her  talk.  These  are  feminine  gifts,  and  yet  past  my 
mastery.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  I  admired  them  the  more  in 
Fanny — just  as,  in  reading  my  childhood's  beloved  volume,  The 
Observing  Eye,  I  had  admired  the  crab's  cuirass  and  the  scorpion's 
130 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

horny  rings — because,  being,  after  all,  myself  a  woman,  I  faintly 
understood  their  purpose. 

Thus,  when   Fanny  told  me  of  the  school  she  taught  in;  and 

of  the  smooth-haired  drawing-master  who  attended  it  with  his 
skill,  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays;  and  of  the  vivacious 
and  saturnine  "Monsieur  Crapaud,"  who,  poked  up  in  a  room 
under  the  gables,  lived  in  the  house ;  or  of  that  other  parish 
curate  who  was  a  nephew  of  the  head-mistress's,  the  implacable 
Miss  Stebbings,  and  who,  apparently,  preached  Sunday  after 
Sunday,  with  peculiar  pertinacity,  on  such  texts  as  "God  is  love" 
— when  Fanny  recounted  to  me  these  afflictions,  graces,  and 
mockeries  of  her  daily  routine  as  "literature''  mistress,  I  could  as 
easily  bestow  on  her  the  vivifying  particulars  she  left  out,  as  a 
painter  can  send  his  portraits  to  be  framed. 

Once  and  again — just  as  I  have  seen  a  blackbird  drop  plumb 
from  the  upper  boughs  of  a  tree  on  a  worm  disporting  itself  in 
the  dewy  mould — once  I  did  ask  a  question  which  produced  in 
her  one  of  those  curious  reactions  which  made  her,  rather  than 
immaterial,  an  exceedingly  vigilant  image  of  her  very  self. 
"What  will  you  do,  Fanny,  when  you  can't  mock  at  him?" 

"Him?"  she  inquired  in  a  breath. 

"The  him  !"  I  said. 

"What  him  ?"  she  replied. 

"Well,"  I  said,  stumbling  along  down  what  was  a  rather 
black  and  unfamiliar  alley  to  me,  "my  father  was  not,  I  suppose, 
particularly  wise  in  anything,  but  my  mother  loved  him  very 
much." 

"And  my  father,"  she  retorted,  in  words  so  carefully  pro- 
nounced that  I  knew  they  must  be  dangerous,  "my  father  was 
a  first  mate  in  the  mercantile  marine  when  he  married  your 
landlady." 

"Well,"  I  repeated,  "what  would  you  do,  if — if  you  fell  in  love?" 

Fanny  sat  quite  still,  all  the  light  at  the  window  gently  beating 
on  her  face,  with  its  half-closed  eyes.  Her  foot  stirred,  and 
with  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  of  her  shoulder,  she 
replied,  "I  shall  go  blind." 

I  looked  at  her,  dumbfounded.  All  the  days  of  her  company 
were  shrivelled  up  in  that  small  sentence.  "Oh,  Fanny,"  I 
whispered   hopelessly,   "then   you   know?" 

"'Know'?"  echoed  the  smooth  lips. 

131 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Why,  I  mean,"  I  expostulated,  rushing  for  shelter  fully 
as  rapidly  as  my  old  friend  the  lobster  must  have  done  when 
it  was  time  to  change  his  shell,  "I  mean  that's  what  that  absurd 
little  Frenchman  is — 'Monsieur  Crapaud.'  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Fanny  calmly,  "he  is  not  blind,  he  only  has 
his  eyes  shut.  Mine,"  she  added,  as  if  the  whole  light  of  the 
wintry  sky  she  faced  were  the  mirror  of  her  prediction,  "mine 
will  be  wide  open." 

How  did  I  know  that  for  once  the  serene,  theatrical  creature 
was  being  mortally  serious? 


132 


Chapter  Fifteen 


I  GREW  a  little  weary  of  the  beautiful  snow  in  the  days  that 
followed  my  first  talk  with  Mr  Crimble,  and  fretted  at  the 
close  air  of  the  house.  The  last  day  of  the  year  the  wind  was 
still  in  the  north.  It  perplexed  me  that  the  pride  which  from  my 
seed  had  sprung  up  in  Fanny,  and  had  prevented  her  from 
taking  part  in  the  parish  concert,  yet  allowed  her  to  attend  it. 
She  set  off  thickly  veiled.  Not  even  Air  Crimble' s  spectacles 
were  likely  to  pierce  her  disguise.  I  had  written  a  little  letter 
the  afternoon  before  and  had  myself  handed  it  to  Mrs  Bowater 
with  a  large  fork  of  mistletoe  from  my  Christmas  bunch.  It 
was  an  invitation  to  herself  and  Fanny  to  sit  with  me  and  "see 
in"  the  New  Year.  She  smiled  at  me  over  it — still  her  tranquil, 
though  neglected  self — and  I  was  half-satisfied. 

Her  best  black  dress  was  donned  for  the  occasion.  She 
had  purchased  a  bottle  of  ginger  wine,  which  she  brought  in 
with  some  glasses  and  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  red  and 
black  tablecloth.  Its  white-lettered,  dark-green  label  "haunts  me 
still."  The  hours  drew  on.  Fanny  returned  from  the  concert — 
entering  the  room  like  a  cloud  of  beauty.  She  beguiled  the 
dwindling  minutes  of  the  year  with  mocking  echoes  of  it. 

In  a  rich  falsetto  she  repeated  Mr  Crimble's  "few  words" 
of  sympathetic  apology  for  her  absence:  "T  must  ask  your 
indulgence,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  a  lamentable  hiatus  in 
our  programme.'"  She  gave  us  Mi>s  Willett's  and  Mr  Bangor's 
spirited  rendering  of  "Oh,  that  we  two"  ;  and  of  the  recitation 
which  rather  easily,  it  appeared,  Mrs  Bullace  had  been  prevailed 
upon  to  give  as  an  encore  after  her  "Abt  Vogler" :  "The  Lady's 
'Yes,'  "  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  And  what  a  glance 
of  light  and  fire  she  cast  me  when  she  came  to  stanza  six  of 
the  poem : — 


"Lead  her   from  the   festive  boards. 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies !  .  .  .' 


133 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

And  she  imitated  Lady  Pollacke's  niece's — Miss  Oran's — 'cello 
obligato  to  "The  Lost  Chord,"  with  a  plangency  that  stirred 
even  the  soul  of  Henry  as  he  lay  curled  up  in  my  land- 
lady's lap.  The  black  head  split  like  a  pomegranate  as  he  yawned 
his  disgust. 

At  this  Mrs  Bowater  turned  her  bony  face  on  me,  her  hands 
on  her  knees,  and  with  a  lift  of  her  eyes  disclosed  the  fact  that  she 
was  amused,  and  that  she  hoped  her  amusement  would  remain 
a  confidence  between  us.  She  got  up  and  put  the  cat  out :  and 
on  her  return  had  regained  her  solemnity. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  stiffly,  staring  into  the  sparkling  fire 
that  was  our  only  illumination,  "I  suppose,  poor  creatures, 
they  did  their  best :  and  it  isn't  so  many  years  ago,  Fanny, 
since  you  were  as  put-about  to  be  allowed  to  sing  at  one  of  the 
church  concerts  as  a  bird  is  to  hop  out  of  its  cage." 

"Yes,"  said  Fanny,  "but  in  this  world  birds  merely  hop  out 
of  one  cage  into  another;  though  I  suppose  the  larger  are  the 
more  comfortable."  This  retort  set  Mrs  Bowater 's  countenance 
in  an  impassive  mask — so  impassive  that  every  fitfully-lit  photo- 
graph in  the  room  seemed  to  have  imitated  her  stare.  "And, 
mother,"  added  Fanny  seductively,  "who  taught  me  to  sing?" 

"The  Lord  knows,"  cried  Mrs  Bowater,  with  conviction,  "/ 
never  did." 

"Yes,"  muttered  Fanny  in  a  low  voice,  for  my  information, 
"but  does  He  care?"  I  hastily  asked  Mrs  Bowater  if  she  was 
glad  of  to-morrow's  New  Year.  As  if  in  reply  the  kitchen  clock, 
always  ten  minutes  fast,  began  to  chime  twelve,  half -choking 
at  every  stroke.  And  once  more  the  soul  of  poor  Mr  Hubbins 
sorrowfully  took  shape  in  a  gaze  at  me  out  of  vacancy. 

"To  them  going  downhill,  miss,"  my  landlady  was  replying 
to  my  question,  "it  is  not  the  milestones  are  the  pleasantest 
company — nor  that  the  journey's  then  of  much  account  until 
it  is  over.  By  which  I  don't  mean  to  suggest  there  need  be 
gloom.  But  to  you  and  Fanny  here — well,  I  expect  the  little 
that's  the  present  for  you  is  mostly  wasted  on  the  future."  With 
that,  she  rose,  and  poured  out  the  syrupy  brown  wine  from  the 
green  bottle,  reserving  a  remarkably  little  glass  which  she  had 
rummaged  out  of  her  years'  hoardings  for  me. 

Fanny  herself,  with  musing  head — her  mockings  over — was 
sitting  drawn-up  on  a  stool  by  the  fire.     I  doubt  if  she  was  think- 

134 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ing.  Whether  or  not,  to  my  enchanted  eye-  some  phantom  within 
her  seemed  content  merely  to  be  her  beauty.  And  in  n 
there  was  a  grace  in  her  hody — the  smooth  shoulder,  the  poise  1 
head  that,  because,  perhaps,  it  was  so  transitory,  seemed  to  re- 
semble the  never-changing — that  mimicry  of  the  unknown  which 
may  be  seen  in  a  flower,  in  a  green  hill,  even  in  an  animal. 
It  is  as  though,  I  do  think,  what  we  love  most  in  this  life  must 
of  necessity  share  two  worlds. 

Faintly  out  of  the  frosty  air  was  wafted  the  knelling  of  mid- 
night. I  rose,  stepped  back  from  the  firelight,  drew  the  curtain, 
and  stole  a  look  into  space.  Away  on  the  right  flashed  Sinus, 
and  to  east  of  him  came  gliding  flat-headed  Hydra  with  Alphard, 
the  Red  Bird,  in  his  coil.  So,  for  a  moment  in  our  history, 
I  and  the  terrestrial  globe  were  alone  together.  It  seemed 
indeed  that  an  intenser  silence  drew  over  reality  as  the  earth 
faced  yet  one  more  fleeting  revolution  round  her  invisible  lord 
and  master.     But  no  moon  was  risen  yet. 

I  turned  towards  the  shape  by  the  fire,  and  without  her  per- 
ceiving it,  wafted  kiss  and  prayer  in  her  direction.  Cold,  care- 
less Fanny — further  than  Uranus.  We  were  alone,  for  at  firsl 
stroke  of  St  Peter's  Mrs  Bowater  had  left  the  room  and  had 
opened  the  front  door.  She  was  smiling;  but  was  she  smiling, 
or  was  that  vague  bewitchingness  in  her  face  merely  an  un- 
meaning guile  of  which  she  was  unaware?  It  might  have  been  a 
mermaid  sitting  there  in  the  firelight. 

The  bells  broke  in  on  our  stillness;  and  fortunately,  since 
there  was  no  dark  man  in  the  house  to  bring  us  luck,  Henry, 
already  disgusted  with  the  snow  and  blacker  in  hue  than  any 
whiskered  human  I  have  ever  seen,  seized  his  opportunity,  and 
was  the  first  living  creature  to  cross  our  threshold  from  one  year 
into  another. 

This  auspicious  event  renewed  our  spirits  which,  in  waiting, 
had  begun  to  flag.  From  far  away  came  a  jangling  murmur  of 
shouting  and  instruments  and  bells,  which  showed  that  the  rest 
of  the  parish  was  sharing  our  solemn  vigil;  and  then,  with  me  on 
my  table  between  them,  a  hand  of  each  clasping  mine,  Mrs 
Bowater,  Fanny,  and  I,  after  sipping  rich  other's  health,  raised  the 
strains  of  "Aul'd  Fang  Syne."  There  must  have  been  Scottish 
blood  in  Mrs  Bowater;  she  certainly  made  up  for  some  little 
variation    from    the    tune    by   a   heartfelt    pronunciation    of    the 

135 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

words.  Hardly  had  we  completed  this  rite  than  the  grand- 
father's clock  in  the  narrow  passage  staidly  protested  its  own 
rendering  of  eternity ;  and  we  all — even  Mrs  Bowater — burst 
out  laughing. 

"Good-night,  Midgetina ;  an  immense  happy  New  Year  to 
you,"  whispered  a  voice  to  me  about  half  an  hour  afterwards. 
I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  peeped  through  my  curtains.  On  some 
little  errand  Fanny  had  come  down  from  her  bedroom,  and 
with  a  Paisley  shawl  over  her  shoulders  stood  with  head  and 
candle  thrust  in  at  the  door.  I  gazed  at  her  fairness.  "Oh, 
Fanny !"  I  cried.     "Oh,  Fanny !" 

New  Year's  Day  brought  a  change  of  weather.  A  slight 
mist  rose  over  the  fields,  it  began  to  thaw.  A  kind  of  listless- 
ness  now  came  over  Fanny,  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  dispel.  Yet 
she  seemed  to  seek  my  company ;  often  to  remain  silent,  and 
occasionally  to  ask  me  curious  questions  as  if  testing  one  answer 
against  another.  And  one  discovery  I  made  in  my  efforts  to 
keep  her  near  me :  that  she  liked  being  read-  to.  Most  of  the 
volumes  in  Mrs  Bowater's  small  library  were  of  a  nautical 
character,  and  though  one  of  them,  on  the  winds  and  tides 
and  seas  and  coasts  of  the  world,  was  to  console  me  later  in 
Fanny's  absence,  the  majority  defied  even  my  obstinacy.  Fanny 
hated  stories  of  the  sea,  seemed  to  detest  Crusoe ;  and  smiled 
her  slow,  mysterious  smile  while  she  examined  my  own  small 
literary  treasures.  By  a  flighty  stroke  of  fortune,  tacked  up  by 
an  unskilled  hand  in  the  stained  brown  binding  of  a  volume  on 
Disorders  of  the  Nerves,  we  discovered  among  her  father's 
books  a  copy  of  Withering  Heights,  by  Emily  Bronte. 

The  very  first  sentence  of  this  strange,  dwelling  book,  was  a 
spell:  "1801. — I  have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  my  landlord 
— the  solitary  neighbour  that  I  shall  be  troubled  with."  .  .  . 
And  when,  a  few  lines  farther  on,  I  read :  "He  little  imagined 
how  my  heart  warmed  towards  him  when  I  beheld  his  black  eyes 
withdraw  so  suspiciously  under  their  brows" — the  apparition 
of  who  but  Mr  Crumble  blinked  at  me  out  of  the  print,  and  the 
enchantment  was  complete.  It  was  not  only  gaunt  enormous 
Yorkshire  with  its  fells  and  wastes  of  snow  that  seized  on  my 
imagination,  not  only  that  vast  kitchen  with  its  flagstones, 
green  chairs,  and  firearms,  but  the  mere  music  and  aroma  of 
136 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  words,  "I  beheld  his  black  eyes" ;  "a  range  of  gaunt  thorns" ; 
"a  wilderness  of  crumbling  griffins" ;  "a  huge,  liver-coloured 
bitch  pointer" — they  rang  in  my  mind,  echoed  on  in  my 
dreams. 

And  though  in  the  wet  and  windy  afternoons  and  evenings 
which  Fanny  and  I  thus  shared,  she,  much  more  than  poor 
Mr  Crimble,  resembled  Heathcliff  in  being  "rather  morose," 
and  in  frequently  expressing  "an  aversion  to  showing  displays 
of  feeling,"  she  was  mure  attracted  by  my  discovery  than  she 
condescended  to  confess.  Jane  Byre,  she  said,  was  a  better 
story,  "though  Jane  herself  was  a  fool."  What  cared  I?  To  me 
this  book  was  like  the  kindling  of  a  light  in  a  strange  house; 
and  that  house  my  mind.  I  gazed,  watched,  marvelled,  and 
recognized,  as  I  kneeled  before  its  pages.  But  though  my  heart 
was  torn,  and  my  feelings  were  a  little  deranged  by  the  scenes 
of  violence,  and  my  fancy  was  haunted  by  that  stalking  wolfish 
spectre,  I  took  no  part.  I  surveyed  all  with  just  that  sense 
of  aloofness  and  absorption  with  which  as  children  Cathy  and 
Heathcliff,  barefoot  in  the  darkness  of  the  garden,  had  looked 
in  that  Sunday  evening  on  the  Lintons'  crimson  taper-lit  drawing- 
room. 

If,  in  February,  you  put  a  newly  gathered  sprig  of  budding 
thorn  into  the  fire;  instantaneously,  in  the  influence  of  the  heat, 
it  will  break  into  bright-green  tiny  leaf.  That  is  what  Emily 
Bronte  did  for  me.  Not  so  for  Fanny.  In  her  "vapid  listless- 
ness"  she  often  pretended  to  yawn  over  Wuthering  Heights, 
and  would  shock  me  with  mocking  criticism,  or  cry  "Ah !"  at 
the  poignant  passages.  But  I  believe  it  was  pure  concealment. 
She  was  really  playing  a  part  in  the  story.  I  have,  at  any  rate, 
never  seen  her  face  so  transfigured  as  when  once  she  suddenly 
looked  up  in  the  firelight  and  caught  my  eye  fixed  on  her  over 
the  book. 

It  was  at  the  passage  where  Cathy — in  her  grand  plaid  silk 
frock,  white  trousers,  and  burnished  shoes — returns  to  the  dread- 
ful Grange ;  and,  "dismally  beclouded,"  Heathcliff  stares  out  at 
her  from  his  hiding-place.  "  '1  le  might,*  '"  I  read  on,  "  'well  skulk 
behind  the  settle,  at  beholding  such  a  bright,  graceful  damsel 
enter  the  house.  "Is  Heathcliff  not  here?"  she  demanded,  pulling 
off  her  gloves,  and  displaying  fingers  wonderfully  whitened  with 
doing  nothing  and  staying  indoors.'  " 

137 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

It  was  at  this  point  that  our  eyes,  as  I  say,  Fanny's  and 
mine,  met.  But  she,  bright,  graceful  damsel,  was  not  thinking 
of  me. 

"Do  you  like  that  kind  of  character,  Fanny?"  I  inquired. 

My  candle's  flames  gleamed  lean  and  tiny  in  her  eyes. 
"Whose?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  Heathcliff's." 

She  turned  slowly  away.  "You  take  things  so  seriously, 
Midgetina.  It's  merely  a  story.  He  only  wanted  taming.  You'll 
see  by-and-by."  But  at  that  moment  my  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  and  when  Mrs  Bowater  opened  the  door  to  con- 
template idle  Fanny,  the  book  was  under  my  bed. 

As  the  day  drew  near  for  Fanny's  return  to  her  "duties," 
her  mood  brightened.  She  displayed  before  me  in  all  their 
stages,  the  new  clothes  which  Mrs  Bowater  lavished  on  her — 
to  a  degree  that,  amateur  though  I  was  in  domestic  economy, 
filled  me  with  astonishment.  I  had  to  feign  delight  in  these 
fineries — "Ah  !"  whispered  I  to  each,  "when  she  wears  you  she 
will  be  far,  far  away."  I  envied  the  very  buttons,  and  indeed 
pestered  her  with  entreaties.  I  implored  her  to  think  of  me  at 
certain  hours;  to  say  good-night  to  herself  for  me;  to  write 
day  by  day  in  the  first  of  the  evening;  to  share  the  moon:  "If 
we  both  look  at  her  at  the  same  moment,"  I  argued,  "it  will 
be  next  to  looking  at  one  another.  You  cannot  be  utterly  gone: 
and  if  you  see  even  a  flower,  or  hear  the  wind.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
hope  and  hope  you  will  be  happy." 

She  promised  everything  with  smiling  ease,  and  would  have 
sealed  the  compact  in  blood  if  I  had  thought  to  cut  my  thumb 
for  it.  Thursday  in  Holy  Week — then  she  would  be  home  again. 
I  stared  at  the  blessed  day  across  the  centuries  as  a  condemned 
man  stares  in  fancy  at  the  scaffold  awaiting  him  ;  but  on  mine 
hung  all  my  hopes.  Long  evenings  I  never  saw  her  at  all ;  and 
voices  in  the  kitchen,  when  she  came  in  late,  suggested  that 
my  landlady  had  also  missed  her.  But  Fanny  never  lost  her 
self-control  even  when  she  lost  her  temper;  and  I  dared  not  tax 
her  with  neglecting  me.  Her  cold  looks  almost  suffocated  me.  I 
besought  her  to  spend  one  last  hour  of  the  eve  of  her  departure 
alone  with  me  and  with  the  stars  in  the  woods.  She  promised. 
138 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

At  eleven  she  came  home,  and  went  straight  up  into  her  bedroom. 
I  heard  her  Footsteps.     She  was  packing.     Then  silence. 

I  waited  on  until  sick  at  heart  I  flung  myself  on  my  knees  beside 
my  bed  and  prayed  that  God  would  comfort  her.  Heathcliff  had 
acquired  a  feeble  pupil.     The  next  afternoon  she  was  gone. 


139 


Chapter    Sixteen 


FOR  many  days  my  mind  was  an  empty  husk,  yet  in  a  constant 
torment  of  longing,  daydream,  despair,  and  self-reproaches. 
Everything  I  looked  at  had  but  one  meaning — that  she  was 
not  there.  I  did  not  dare  to  admit  into  my  heart  a  hope  of  the 
future,  since  it  would  be  treason  to  the  absent.  There  was  an 
ecstatic  mournfulness  even  in  the  sight  of  the  January  sun,  the 
greening  fields,  the  first  scarcely  perceptible  signals  of  a  new  year. 
And  when  one  morning  I  awoke  early  and  heard,  still  half  in 
dream,  a  thrush  in  all  but  darkness  singing  of  spring,  it  seemed  it 
was  a  voice  pealing  in  the  empty  courts  of  paradise.  What  ridicu- 
lous care  I  took  to  conceal  my  misery  from  Mrs  Bowater.  Hardly 
a  morning  passed  but  that  I  carried  out  in  a  bag  the  food  I  couldn't 
eat  the  day  before,  to  hide  it  away  or  bury  it.  But  such  journeys 
were  brief. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  love  is  a  disease.  Or  is  it  that  Life 
piles  up  the  fuel,  a  chance  stranger  darts  a  spark,  and  the  whole 
world  goes  up  in  smoke  ?  Was  I  happier  in  that  fever  than  I  am 
in  this  literary  calm?  Why  did  love  for  things  without  jealousy 
or  envy  fill  me  with  delight,  pour  happiness  into  me,  and  love  for 
Fanny  parch  me  up,  suck  every  other  interest  from  my  mind,  and 
all  but  blind  my  eyes  ?  Is  that  true  ?  I  cannot  be  sure  :  for  to  re- 
member her  ravages  is  as  difficult  as  to  re-assemble  the  dismal 
phantoms  that  flock  into  a  delirious  brain.  And  still  to  be  honest — 
there's  another  chance :  Was  she  to  blame?  Wrould  my  mind  have 
been  at  peace  even  in  its  solitary  woe  if  she  had  dealt  truly  with 
me?  Would  any  one  believe  it? — it  never  occurred  to  me  to  re- 
mind myself  that  it  might  be  a  question  merely  of  size.  Simply 
because  I  loved,  I  deemed  myself  lovable.  Yet  in  my  heart  of 
hearts  that  afternoon  I  had  been  twitting  Mr  Crimble  for  saying 
his  prayers! 

But  even  the  heart  is  Phcenix-like.  The  outer  world  began  to 
break  into  my  desolation,  not  least  successfully  when  after  a  week 
or  two  of  absence  there  came  a  post  card  from  Fanny  to  her  mother 
140 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

with  a  mere  "love  to  M."  scrawled  in  its  top  right-hand  corner. 
It  was  as  if  a  wine-glass  of  cold  water  had  been  poured  down  my 
back.  It  was  followed  by  yet  another  little  "shock."  <  >ne  eve- 
ning, when  she  had  carefully  set  down  my  bowl  of  rusk  and  milk, 
Mrs  I'.owater  took  up  her  -land  opposite  to  me,  black  as  an  image 
in  wood.  "You  haven't  been  after  your  stars,  miss,  of  late.  It's 
moping  you  are.  I  suffered  myself  from  the  same  greensick  fan- 
tasticalities, when  /  was  a  girl.  Not  that  a  good  result's  any  the 
better  for  a  poor  cause;  but  it  was  courting  danger  with  your  frail 
frame  ;  it  was  indeed.'' 

I  smile  in  remembrance  of  the  picture  presented  by  that  con- 
science-stricken face  of  mine  upturned  to  that  stark  monitor — a 
monitor  no  less  stark  at  this  very  moment  though  we  are  both 
many  years  older. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  continued,  and  even  the  dun,  fading  photograph 
over  her  head  might  have  paled  at  her  accents.  "I'm  soliciting  no 
divulgements ;  she  wouldn't  have  gone  alone,  and  if  she  did,  would 
have  heard  of  it  from  me.  But  you  must  please  remember,  miss, 
I  am  her  mother.  And  you  will  remember,  miss,  also,"  she  added, 
with  upper  lip  drawn  even  tighter,  "that  your  care  is  my  care,  and 
always  will  be  while  you  are  under  my  roof — and  after,  please 
God." 

She  soundlessly  closed  the  door  behind  her,  as  if  in  so  doing  she 
were  shutting  up  the  whole  matter  in  her  mind  for  ever,  as  indeed 
she  was,  for  she  never  referred  to  it  again.  Thunderbolts  fall 
quietly  at  times.  I  sat  stupefied.  But  as  I  examine  that  distant 
conscience,  I  am  aware,  first,  of  a  faint  flitting  of  the  problem 
through  my  mind  as  to  why  a  freedom  which  Mrs  Bowater  would 
have  denied  to  Fanny  should  have  held  no  dangers  for  me,  and 
next,  I  realize  that  of  all  the  emotions  in  conflict  within  me.  humili- 
ation stood  head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest.  Indeed  I  flushed 
all  over,  at  the  thought  that  never  for  one  moment — then  or  since — 
had  I  paused  to  consider  how,  on  that  fateful  midnight,  Fanny 
could  have  left  the  house-door  bolted  behind  her.  My  utter  stu- 
pidity: and  Fanny's !  All  these  weeks  my  landlady  had  known,  and 
said  nothing.  The  green  gooseberries  of  my  childhood  were  a  far 
less  effective  tonic.  But  I  lost  no  love  for  Mrs  Bowater  in  this 
prodigious  increase  of  respect. 

A  far  pleasanter  interruption  of  my  sick  longings  for  the  ab-ent 
one  occurred  the  next  morning.     At  a  loss  what  to  be  reading  ( for 

141 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Fanny  had  abstracted  my  Wuthering  'Heights  and  taken  it  away 
with  her),  once  more  shudderingly  pushing  aside  my  breakfast,  I 
turned  over  the  dusty,  faded  pile  of  Bowater  books.  And  in  one 
of  them  I  discovered  a  chapter  on  knots.  Our  minds  are  cleverer 
than  we  think  them,  and  not  only  cats  have  an  instinct  for  phys- 
icking themselves.  I  took  out  a  piece  of  silk  twine  from  my 
drawer  and — with  Fanny's  phantom  sulking  a  while  in  neglect — 
set  myself  to'  the  mastery  of  "the  ship  boy's"  science.  I  had 
learned  for  ever  to  distinguish  between  the  granny  and  the  reef 
(such  is  fate,  this  knot  was  also  called  the  true  lover's !),  and  was 
setting  about  the  fisherman's  bend,  when  there  came  a  knock  on  the 
door — and  then  a  head. 

It  was  Pollie.  Until  I  saw  her  round,  red,  country  cheek,  and 
stiff  Sunday  hat,  thus  unexpectedly  appear,  I  had  almost  forgotten 
how  much  I  loved  and  had  missed  her.  No  doubt  my  landlady 
had  been  the  dca  ex  machind  that  had  produced  her  on  this  fine 
sunshine  morning.  Anyhow  she  was  from  heaven.  Besides 
butter,  a  posy  of  winter  jasmine,  a  crochet  bedspread,  and  a  var- 
nished arbour  chair  made  especially  for  me  during  the  winter  eve- 
nings by  her  father,  Mr  Muggeridge,  she  brought  startling  news. 
There  suddenly  fell  a  pause  in  our  excited  talk.  She  drew  out  her 
handkerchief  and  a  slow  crimson  mounted  up  over  neck,  cheek, 
ears,  and  brow.  I  couldn't  look  quite  away  from  this  delicious 
sight,  so  my  eyes  wandered  up  in  admiration  of  the  artificial  corn- 
flowers and  daisies  in  her  hat. 

Whereupon  she  softly  blew  her  nose  and,  with  a  gliding  glance 
at  the  shut  door,  she  breathed  out  her  secret.  She  was  engaged  to 
be  married.  A  trying,  romantic  vapour  seemed  instantly  to  gather 
about  us,  in  whose  hush  I  was  curiously  aware  not  only  of  Pollie 
thus  suffused,  sitting  with  her  hands  loosely  folded  in  her  lap,  but 
of  myself  also,  perched  opposite  to  her  with  eyes  in  which  curios- 
ity, incredulity,  and  even  a  remote  consternation  played  upon  her 
homely  features.  Time  melted  away,  and  there  once  more  sat  the 
old  Pollie — a  gawk  of  a  girl  in  a  pinafore,  munching  up  green 
apples  and  re-plaiting  her  dull  brown  hair. 

Then,  of  course,  I  was  bashfully  challenged  to  name  the  happy 
man.  I  guessed  and  guessed  to  Pollie's  ever-increasing  gusto,  and 
at  last  I  dared  my  first  unuttered  choice :  "Well,  then,  it  must  be 
Adam  Waggett !" 

"Adam  Waggett !  Oh,  miss,  him !  a  nose  like  a  winebottle." 
142 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

It  was  undeniable.  I  apologized,  and  Pollie  surrendered  her 
future  into  my  hands.     "It's  Bob  Halibut,  mi  -."    he  whispered 

hoarsely. 

And  instantaneously  Boh  Halibut's  red  head  loomed  louringly 
out  at  me.  But  I  know  little  about  husbands;  and  premonitions 
only  impress  us  when  they  come  true.  Time  was  to  prove  that 
Pollie  and  her  mother  had  made  a  prudent  choice.  Am  I  not  now 
Mr  Halibut's  god-sister,  so  to  speak? 

The  wedding,  said  Pollie,  was  to  be  in  the  summer.  "And  oh, 
miss" — would  I  come? 

The  scheming  that  followed!  The  sensitive  draping  of  difficul- 
ties on  either  side,  the  old  homesick  longing  on  mine — to  flee  away 
now,  at  once,  from  this  scene  of  my  afflicted  adoration.  I  almost 
hated  Fanny  forgiving  me  so  much  pain.  Mrs  Bowater  was  sum- 
moned to  our  council ;  my  promise  was  given ;  and  it  was  she  who 
suggested  that  its  being  "a  nice  bright  afternoon,"  Pollie  should 
take  me  for  a  walk. 

But  whither?  It  seemed  a  sheer  waste  of  Pollie  to  take  her  to 
the  woods.  Thoughts  of  St  Peter's,  the  nocturnal  splendour  in  the 
cab,  a  hunger  for  novelty,  the  itch  to  spend  money,  and  maybe  a 
tinge  of  dare-devilry — without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  chose  the 
shops  and  the  "town."  Once  more  in  my  black,  with  two  thick- 
nesses of  veil  canopying  my  head,  as  if  I  were  a  joint  of  meat  in 
the  Dog  Days,  I  settled  myself  on  Pollie's  arm,  and — in  the  full 
publicity  of  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — off  we  went. 

We  chattered;  we  laughed  ;  we  sniggled  together  like  schoolgirls 
in  amusement  at  the  passers-by,  in  the  strange,  busy  High  Street. 
I  devoured  the  entrancing  wares  in  the  shop  windows — milliner, 
hairdresser  and  perfumer,  confectioner;  even  the  pyramids  of 
jam  jars  and  sugar-cones  in  the  grocer's,  and  the  soaps,  syrups, 
and  sponges  of  Mr  Simpkins — P>eechwood's  pharmaceutical  chem- 
ist. Out  of  the  sovereign  which  I  had  brought  with  me  from  my 
treasure-chest  Pollie  made  purchases  on  my  behalf.  For  Mrs 
Bowater,  a  muslin  tie  for  the  neck;  for  herself — after  heated  con- 
troversy— a  pair  of  kid  gloves  and  a  bottle  of  frangipani ;  and  for 
me  a  novd. 

This  last  necessitated  a  visit  to  Mrs  Stocks's  Circulating  Library. 
My  hopes  had  been  sel  on  Jane  Eyre.  Mrs  Stocks  regretted  that 
the  demand  for  this  novel  had  always  exceeded  her  supply: 
"What  may  be  called  the  sensational  style  of  fiction"   (or  was  it 

H3 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

friction?)  "never  lays  much  on  our  hands."  She  produced,  in- 
stead, and  very  tactfully,  a  comparatively  diminutive  copy  of  Miss 
Austen's  Sense  and  Sensibility.  It  was  a  little  shop-soiled;  "But 
books  keep,  miss" ;  and  she  let  me  have  it  at  a  reduced  price.  Her 
great  shears  severed  the  string.  Pollie  and  I  once  more  set  clang- 
ing the  sonorous  bell  at  the  door,  and  emerged  into  the  sunlight. 
"Oh,  Pollie,"  I  whispered,  "if  only  you  could  stay  with  me  for 
ever !" 

This  taste  of  "life"  had  so  elated  me  that  after  fevered  and 
silent  debate  I  at  last  laughed  out,  and  explained  to  Pollie  that 
I  wished  to  be  "put  down."  Her  breathless  arguments  against 
this  foolhardy  experiment  only  increased  my  obstinacy.  She  was 
compelled  to  obey.  Bidding  her  keep  some  little  distance  behind 
me,  I  settled  my  veil,  clasped  tight  my  Miss  Austen  in  my  arms 
and  set  my  face  in  the  direction  from  which  we  had  come.  One 
after  another  the  wide  paving-stones  stretched  out  in  front  of  me. 
It  was  an  extraordinary  experience.  I  was  openly  alone  now,  not 
with  the  skulking,  deceitful  shades  and  appearances  of  night,  or  the 
quiet  flowers  and  trees  in  the  enormous  vacancy  of  nature ;  but  in 
the  midst  of  a  town  of  men  in  their  height — and  walking  along 
there:  by  myself.  It  was  as  if  I  had  suddenly  realized  what  as- 
tonishingly active  and  domineering  and  multitudinous  creatures  we 
humans  are.  I  can't  explain.  The  High  Street,  to  use  a  good  old 
phrase,  "got  up  into  my  head."  My  mind  was  in  such  a  whirl  of 
excitement  that  full  consciousness  of  what  followed  eludes  me. 

The  sun  poured  wintry  bright  into  the  house-walled  gulf  of  a 
street  that  in  my  isolation  seemed  immeasurably  vast  and  empty. 
I  think  my  senses  distorted  the  scene.  There  was  the  terrific  glit- 
ter of  glass,  the  clatter  of  traffic.  A  puff  of  wind  whirled  dust  and 
grit  and  particles  of  straw  into  the  air.  The  shapes  of  advancing 
pedestrians  towered  close  above  me,  then,  stiff  with  sudden  atten- 
tion, passed  me  by.  My  legs  grew  a  little  numb  and  my  brain  con- 
fused. The  strident  whistling  of  a  butcher's  boy,  with  an  empty, 
blood-stained  tray  over  his  shoulder,  suddenly  ceased.  Saucer- 
eyed,  he  stood  stock  still,  gulped  and  gaped.  I  kept  on  my  course. 
A  yelp  of  astonishment  rent  the  air.  Whereupon,  as  it  seemed, 
from  divers  angles,  similar  boys  seemed  to  leap  out  of  the  ground 
and  came  whooping  and  revolving  across  the  street  in  my  direction. 
And  now  the  blood  so  hummed  in  my  head  that  it  was  rather  my 
144 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

nerves  than  my  ears  which  informed  me  of  a  steadily  increasing 
murmur  and  trampling  behind  me. 

With  extraordinary  vividness  I  recall  the  vision  of  a  gigantic 
barouche  gliding  along  towards  me  in  the  shine  and  the  dust;  and 
seated  up  in  it  a  high,  pompous  lady  who  at  one  moment  with  rigid 
urbanity  inclined  her  head  apparently  in  my  direction,  and  at  the 
next,  her  face  displeased  as  if  at  an  offensive  odour,  had  sunk  back 
into  her  cushions,  oblivious  not  only  of  Beechwood  but  of  the  whole 
habitable  globe.  Simultaneously,  I  was  aware,  even  as  I  hastened 
on,  first  thai  the  acquaintance  whose  salute  she  had  acknowledged 
was  Mr  Crimble,  and  next,  that  with  incredible  rapidity  he  had 
wheeled  himself  about  and  had  instantaneously  transfixed  his  en- 
tire attention  on  some  object  in  the  window  of  a  hatter's. 

Until  this  moment,  as  I  say,  a  confused  but  blackening  elation 
had  filled  my  mind.  But  at  sight  of  Mr  (Trimble's  rook-like  stoop- 
ing shoulders  I  began  to  be  afraid.  My  shoe  stumbled  against  a 
jutting  paving-stone.  I  almost  fell.  Whereupon  the  mute  con- 
course at  my  heels — spreading  tail  of  me,  the  Comet — burst  into  a 
prolonged  squealing  roar  of  delight.  The  next  moment  Pollie  was 
at  my  side,  stooping  to  my  rescue.  It  was  too  late.  One  glance 
over  my  shoulder — and  terror  and  hatred  of  the  whole  human  race 
engulfed  me  like  a  sea.  I  struck  savagely  at  Pollie's  cotton-gloved 
hand.     Shivering,  with  clenched,  sticky  teeth,  I  began  to  run. 

Why  this  panic?  Who  would  have  harmed  me?  And  yet  on 
the  thronging  faces  which  I  had  flyingly  caught  sight  of  through 
my  veil  there  lay  an  expression  that  was  not  solely  curiosity — a 
kind  of  hunger,  a  dog-like  gleam.  I  remember  one  thin-legged, 
ferrety,  red-haired  lad  in  particular.  Well,  no  matter.  The 
comedy  was  brief,  and  it  was  Mrs  Stocks  who  lowered  the  curtain. 
Attracted  by  all  this  racket  and  hubbub  in  the  street,  she  was  pro- 
truding her  round  head  out  of  her  precincts.  Like  fox  to  its  hole, 
I  scrambled  over  her  wooden  doorstep,  whisked  round  her  per- 
son, and  fled  for  sanctuary  into  her  shop.  She  hustled  poor 
Pollie  in  after  me,  wheeled  round  on  my  pursuers,  slammed  the 
door  in  their  faces,  slipped  its  bolt,  and  drew  down  its  dark  blue 
blind. 

In  the  sudden  quiet  and  torpor  of  this  musty  gloom  I  turned  my 
hunted  eyes  and  stared  at  the  dark  strip  of  holland  that  hid  me 
from  my  pursuers.  So  too  did  Mrs  Stocks.  The  round  creature 
stood  like  a  stone  out  of  reach  of  the  surf.     Then  she  snorted. 

145 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Them !"  said  she,  with  a  flick  of  her  duster.  "A  parcel  of  idle 
herrand  boys.  /  know  them:  and  no  more  decency  than  if 
you  was  Royalty,  my  dear,  or  a  pickpocket,  or  a  corpse  run  over 
in  the  street.  You  rest  a  bit,  pore  young  thing,  and  compose 
yourself.     They'll  soon  grow  tired  of  themselves." 

She  retired  into  the  back  part  of  her  shop  beyond  the  muslined 
door  and  returned  with  a  tumbler  of  water.  I  shook  my  head. 
My  sight  pulsed  with  my  heartbeats.  As  if  congealed  into  a 
drop  of  poison,  I  stared  and  stared  at  the  blind. 

"Open  the  door,"  I  said.     "I'd  like  to  go  out  again." 

"Oh,  miss  !  oh,  miss  !"  cried  Pollie. 

But  Mrs  Stocks  was  of  a  more  practical  turn.  After  sur- 
veying my  enemies  from  an  upper  window  she  had  sent  a  neigh- 
bour's little  girl  for  a  cab.  By  the  time  this  vehicle  arrived, 
with  a  half-hearted  "Boo!"  of  disappointment,  the  concourse 
in  the  street  had  all  but  melted  away,  and  Mrs  Stocks's  check 
duster  scattered  the  rest.  The  cab-door  slammed,  the  wheels 
ground  on  the  kerbstone,  my  debut  was  over.  I  had  been  but  a 
nine  minutes'  wonder. 


146 


Chapter    Seventeen 


WE  jogged  on  sluggishly  up  the  hill,  and  at  last,  in  our 
velvety  quiet,  as  if  at  a  preconcerted  signal,  Pollie  and 
I  turned  and  looked  at  one  another,  and  broke  into  a 
long,  mirthless  peal  of  laughter — a  laughter  that  on  her  side 
presently  threatened  to  end  in  tears.  I  left  her  to  recover  her- 
self, fixing  my  festering  attention  on  her  engagement  ring — two 
hearts  in  silver  encircled  by  six  sky-blue  turquoises.  And  in  the 
silly,  helpless  fashion  of  one  against  the  world,  1  plotted  revenge. 

The  cab  stopped.  There  stood  the  little  brick  house,  wholly 
unaffected  by  the  tragic  hours  which  had  passed  since  we  had 
so  gaily  set  out  from  it.  I  eyed  it  with  malice  and  disgust  as 
I  reascended  my  Bateses  and  preceded  Pollie  into  the  passage. 
Once  safely  within,  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  explained  to 
Mrs  Bowater  the  phenomenon  of  the  cab  with  such  success  that 
I  verily  believe  she  was  for  the  moment  convinced  that  her 
lodger  was  one  of  those  persons  who  prosper  in  the  attentions 
of  the  mob — Royalty,  that  is,  rather  than  pickpockets  or  corpses 
run  over  in  the  street. 

With  my  new  muslin  tie  adorning  her  neck,  Mrs  Bowater 
took  tea  with  us  that  afternoon,  but  even  Pollie's  imaginative 
version  of  our  adventures  made  no  reference  to  the  lady  in  the 
carriage,  nor  did  she  share  my  intense  conjecture  on  what  Mr 
(  rimble  can  have  found  of  such  engrossing  interest  in  the  halter's. 
Was  it  that  the  lady  had  feigned  not  to  have  seen  me  entirely 
for  my  sake;  and  that  Mr  Crimble  had  feigned  not  to  have 
seen  me  entirely  for  his?  I  was  still  poring  over  this  problem 
in  bed  that  night  when  there  came  a  tap  at  my  door.  It  was 
Pollie.  She  had  made  her  way  downstairs  to  assure  herself 
that  I  was  safe  and  comfortable.  "And  oh,  miss,"  she  whispered, 
as  she  bade  me  a  final  good-night,  "you  never  see  such  a  lovely 
little  bedroom  as  Mrs  Bowater  have  put  me  into — fit  for  a 
princess,  and  yet  just  quite  plain!  Bob's  been  thinking  about 
furniture  too." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

So  I  was  left  alone  again  with  forgotten  Fanny,  and  that 
night  I  dreamed  of  her.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  black  boiling 
waves  flinging  their  yeasty,  curdling  crests  into  the  clouds, 
and  every  crest  the  face  of  my  ferrety  "herrand-boy."  And 
afloat  in  the  midst  of  the  welter  beneath,  a  beloved  shape  whiter 
than  the  foam,  with  shut  eyes,  under  the  gigantic  stoop  of  the 
water.  Who  hangs  these  tragic  veils  in  the  sleeping  mind? 
Who  was  this  I  that  looked  out  on  them?  I  awoke,  shuddering, 
breathed  a  blessing — disjointed,  nameless;  turned  over,  and  soon 
was  once  more  asleep. 

My  day's  experiences  in  the  High  Street  had  added  at  least 
twenty-four  hours  to  my  life.  So  much  a  woman  of  the  world 
was  I  becoming  that  when,  after  Pollie's  departure,  a  knock 
announced  Mr  Crimble,  I  greeted  him  with  a  countenance  guile- 
less and  self-possessed.  With  spectacles  fixed  on  me,  he  stood 
nervously  twitching  a  small  bunch  of  snowdrops  which  he  as- 
sured me  were  the  first  of  the  New  Year.  I  thanked  him,  re- 
marked that  our  Lyndsey  snowdrops  were  shorter  in  the  stalk 
than  these,  and  had  he  noticed  the  pale  green  hieroglyphs  on 
the  petals? 

"In  the  white,  dead  nettle  you  have  to  look  underneath  for 
them :  tiny  black  oblongs ;  you  can't  think  how  secret  it  looks !" 

But  Mr  Crimble  had  not  come  to  botanize.  After  answering 
my  inquiry  after  the  health  of  Mrs  Hubbins,  he  suddenly  sat 
down  and  announced  that  the  object  of  his  visit  was  to  cast 
himself  on  my  generosity.  The  proposal  made  me  uncomfortable, 
but  my  timid  attempt  to  return  to  Mrs  Hubbins  was  unavailing. 

"I  speak,"  he  said,  "of  yesterday's  atrocity.  There  is  no 
other  word  for  it,  and  inasmuch  as  it  occurred  within  two 
hundred  yards  of  my  own  church,  indeed  of  my  mother's  house, 
I  cannot  disclaim  all  responsibility  for  it." 

Nor  could  I.  But  I  wished  very  heartily  that  he  had  not 
come  to  talk  about  his  share.  "Oh,"  said  I,  as  airily  as  I  could, 
"you  mean,  Mr  Crimble,  my  little  experience  in  the  High  Street. 
That  was  nothing.  My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  with 
other  things  that  I  did  not  get  even  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of 
St  Peter's.     So  you  see " 

"You  are  kindness  itself,"  he  interrupted,  with  a  rapid  inser- 
tion of  his  forefinger  between  his  neck  and  his  clerical  collar, 
"but  the  fact  is,"  and  he  cast  a  glance  at  me  as  if  with  the 
148 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

whites  of  his  eyes,  "the  fact  is,  I  was  myself  a  scandalized 
witness  of  the  occurrence.  llelieve  me,  it  cannot  have  hurt 
your  sensitive  feelings  more  than — than  it  hurt  mine." 

"But  honestly,  Mr  Crimble,"  1  replied,  glancing  rather  help- 
lessly round  the  room,  "it  didn't  hurt  my  feelings  at  all.  You 
don't  feel  much,  you  know,  when  you  are  angry.  It  was  just 
as  I  should  have  foreseen.  It  is  important  to  know  where 
we  are,  isn't  it;  and  where  other  people  are?  And  boys  will 
be  boys,  as  Mrs  Uowater  says,  and  particularly,  I  suppose,  er- 
rand boys.  What  else  could  I  expect?  It  has  just  taught  me 
a  very  useful  lesson — even  though  I  didn't  much  enjoy  learning 
it.  If  I  am  ever  to  get  used  to  the  world  (and  that  is  a  kind 
of  duty,  Mr  Crimble,  isn't  it?),  the  world  must  get  used  to 
me.  Perhaps  if  we  all  knew  each  other's  insides — our  thoughts 
and  feelings,  I  mean — everybody  would  be  as  peculiar  there — • 
inside,  you  know — as  I  am,  outside.  I'm  afraid  this  is  not 
making  myself  very  clear." 

And  only  a  few  weeks  ago  I  had  been  bombarding  Dr  Phelps 
with  precisely  the  opposite  argument.  That,  I  suppose,  is  what 
is  meant  by  being  "deceitful  on  the  weights." 

Mr  Crimble  opened  his  mouth,  but  I  continued  rapidly,  "You 
see,  I  must  be  candid  about  such  things  to  myself  and  try  not 
to — to  be  silly.  And  you  were  merely  going  to  be  very  kind, 
weren't  you  ?  I  am  a  midget,  and  it's  no  good  denying  it. 
The  people  that  hooted  me  were  not.  That's  all ;  and  if  there 
hadn't  been  so  many  of  them,  perhaps  I  might  have  been  just 
as  much  amused,  if  not  even  shocked  at  them,  as  they  at  me. 
We  think  our  own  size,  that's  all,  and  I'm  perfectly  certain."  I 
nodded  at  him  emphatically,  "I'm  perfectly  certain  if  poor  Mr 
Nubbins  were  here  now,  he'd — he'd  bear  me  out." 

Bear  me  out — the  words  lingered  on  in  my  mind  so  distinctly, 
and  conveyed  so  peculiar  a  picture  of  Mr  Hubbins's  spirit  and 
myself,  that  I  missed  the  beginning  of  my  visitor's  reply. 

"But  I  assure  you,"  he  was  saying,  "it  is  not  merely  that."  The 
glint  of  perspiration  was  on  his  forehead.  "In  the  Almighty's 
sight  all  men  are  equal.  Appearances  are  nothing.  And  some 
of  us  perhaps  are  far  more  precious  by  very  reason  of — of 
passing  afflictions,  and " 

"My  godmother,"  I  interposed,  "said  exactly  that  in  a  letter 
to  me  a  few  months  ago.     Not  that  I  accept  the  word,  Mr  Crimble. 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  'afflictions,'  I  mean.  And  as  for  appearances,  why  they 
are  everything,  aren't  they?"  I  gave  him  as  cordial  an  imitation 
of  a  smile  as  I  could. 

"No,  no,  no;  yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Mr  Crimble  rapidly.  "But 
it  was  not  of  that,  not  of  that  in  a  sense  that  I  was  speaking. 
What  I  came  to  say  this  afternoon  is  this.  I  grant  it ;  I  freely 
confess  it ;  I  played  the  coward ;  morally  rather  than  physically, 
perhaps,  but  still  the  coward.  The — the  hideous  barbarity  of 
the  proceeding."  He  had  forgotten  me.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  scene  in  his  memory.  He  was  once  more  at  the  hatter's 
window.     There  fell  a  painful  pause. 

I  rose  and  sat  down  again.  "But  quite,  quite  honestly,"  I 
interposed  faintly,'  "they  did  me  no  harm.  They  were  only  in- 
quisitive. What  could  you  have  done?  Why,  really  and  truly," 
I  laughed  feebly,  "they  might  have  had  to  pay,  you  know.  It 
was  getting — getting  me  cheap  !" 

His  head  was  thrown  back,  so  that  he  looked  under  his 
spectacles  at  me,  as  he  cried  hollowly :  "They  might  have  stoned 
you." 

"Not  with  those  pavements." 

"But  I  was  there.     I  turned  aside.     You  saw  me?" 

What  persuaded  me  to  be  guilty  of  such  a  ridiculous  quibble, 
I  cannot  think.  Anything,  perhaps,  to  ease  his  agitation:  "But 
honestly,  honestly,  Mr  Crimble,"  I  murmured  out  at  him,  "I 
didn't  see  you  see  me." 

"Oh,  ah!  a  woman's  way!"  he  adjured  me  desperately,  turn- 
ing his  head  from  one  side  to  the  other.  "But  you  must  have 
known  that  I  knew  you  knew  I  had  seen  you,  you  must  confess 
that.  And,  well  .  .  .  as  I  say,  I  can  only  appeal  to  your  generos- 
ity." 

"But  what  can  I  do?  I'm  not  hurt.  If  it  had  been  the 
other  way  round — you  scuttling  along,  I  mean ;  I  really  do  believe 
/  might  have  looked  into  the  hatter's.  Besides,  when  we  were 
safe  in  the  cab.  ...  I  mean,  I'm  glad!  It  was  experience: 
oh,  and  past.  I  loved  it  and  the  streets,  and  the  shops,  and  all 
those  grinning,  gnashing  faces,  and  even  you.  ...  It  was  wildly 
exciting,  Mr  Crimble,  can't  you  see?  And  now" — I  ended  tri- 
umphantly— "and  now  I  have  another  novel !" 

At  this,  suddenly  overcome,  I  jumped  up  from  my  chair 
and  ran  off  into  my  bedroom  as  if  in  search  of  the  book.     The 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

curtains  composed  themselves  behind  me.  In  this  inner  quiet- 
ness, this  momentary  release,  I  stood  there,  erect  beside  the 
bed — without  a  thought  in  my  head.  And  1  began  slowly,  silently 
— to  laugh.  Handkerchief  to  my  lips,  I  laughed  and  laughed — 
not  exactly  like  Pollie  in  the  cab,  but  because  apparently  some 
infinitely  minute  being  within  me  had  risen  up  at  remembrance 
of  the  strange  human  creature  beyond  the  curtains  who  had 
suddenly  before  my  very  eyes  seemed  to  have  expanded  and 
swollen  out  to  double  his  size.  Oh,  what  extraordinary  things 
life  was  doing  to  me.  How  can  I  express  myself?  For  that 
pip  of  a  moment  I  was  just  an  exquisite  icicle  of  solitude — as  if 
I  had  never  been  born.  Yet  there,  under  my  very  nose,  was  my 
bed,  my  glass,  my  hair-brushes  and  bottles — "Here  we  all  are, 
Miss  M." — and  on  the  other  side  of  the  curtains.  .  .  .  And  how 
contemptuous  I  had  been  of  Pollie's  little  lapse  into  the  hysterical ! 
I  brushed  my  handkerchief  over  my  eyes,  tranquillized  my 
features,  and  sallied  out  once  more  into  the  world. 

"Ah,  here  it  is,"  I  exclaimed  ingenuously,  and  lifting  my 
Sense  and  Sensibility  from  where  it  lay  on  the  floi  my 

table,  I  placed  it  almost  ceremoniously  in  Mr  Crimble's  hands. 
A  visible  mist  of  disconcertion  gathered  over  his  face.  He  looked 
at  the  book,  he  opened  it,  his  eye  strayed  down  the  title-page. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  murmured,  "Jane  Austen — a  pocket  edition. 
Macaulay,  I  remember  .  .  ."  He  closed-to  the  covers  again, 
drew  finger  and  thumb  slowly  down  the  margin,  and  then 
leaned  forward.  "But  you  were  asking  me  a  question.  What 
could  I  have  done?     Frankly  I  don't  quite  know.     But  I  might 

have  protected  you,  driven  the  rabble  off,  taken  you The  Good 

Shepherd.  But  there,  in  short,"  and  the  sun  of  relief  peered 
through  the  glooms  of  conscience,  "I  did  nothing.  That  was 
my  failure.  And  absurd  though  it  may  seem,  I  could  not  rest 
until,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  unbosomed  myself,  confessed, 
knowing  you  would  understand."  His  tongue  came  to  a  stand- 
still. "And  when,"  he  continued  in  a  small,  constrained  voice, 
and  with  a  searching,  almost  appealing  glance,  "when  Miss 
Bozvater  returns,  you  will,  I  hope,  allow  me  to  make  amends, 
to   prove She   would   never — for — forgive.  .  .  ." 

The  fog  that  had  been  his  became  mine.  In  an  extravagance 
of  attention  to  every  syllable  of  his  speech  as  it  died  away 
uncompleted  in  the  little  listening  room  I  mutely  surveyed  him. 

I5i 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Then   I  began  to  understand,  to   realize  where  my  poor  little 
"generosity"  was  to  come  in. 

"Ah,"  I  replied  at  last,  forlornly,  our  eyes  in  close  communion, 
"she  won't  be  back  for  months  and  months.  And  anyhow,  she 
wouldn't,  I  am  sure,  much  mind,  Mr  Crimble." 

"Easter,"  he  whispered.  "Well,  you  will  write,  I  suppose," 
and  his  eye  wandered  off  as  if  in  search  of  the  inkpot,  "and  no 
doubt  you  will  share  our — your  secret."  There  was  no  vestige 
of  interrogation  in  his  voice,  and  yet  it  was  clear  that  what 
he  was  suggesting  I  should  do  was  only  and  exactly  what  he 
had  come  that  afternoon  to  ask  me  not  to  do.  Why,  surely,  I 
thought,  examining  him  none  too  complimentarily,  I  am  afraid, 
he  was  merely  playing  for  a  kind  of  stalemate.  What  funny, 
blind  alleys  love  leads  us  into. 

"No,"  I  said  solemnly.  "I  shall  say  nothing.  But  that,  I 
suppose,  is  because  I  am  not  so  brave  as  you  are.  Really  and 
truly,  I  think  she  would  only  be  amused.  Everything  amuses 
her." 

It  seemed  that  we  had  suddenly  reassumed  our  natural  dimen- 
sions, for  at  that  he  looked  at  me  tinily  again,  and  with  the 
suggestion,  to  which  I  was  long  accustomed,  that  he  would  rather 
not  be  observed  while  so  looking. 

On  the  whole,  ours  had  been  a  gloomy  talk.  Nevertheless, 
theft,  not  on  my  generosity,  but  I  hope  on  my  understanding, 
he  reposed  himself,  and  so  reposes  to  this  day.  When  the  door 
had  closed  behind  him,  I  felt  far  more  friendly  towards  Mr 
Crimble  than  I  had  felt  before.  Even  apart  from  the  Almighty, 
he  had  made  us  as  nearly  as  he  could — equals.  I  tossed  a 
pleasant  little  bow  to  his  snowdrops,  and,  catching  sight  of  Mr 
Bowater's  fixed  stare  on  me,  hastily  included  him  within  its  range. 

Mr  Crimble,  Mrs  Bowater  informed  me  the  following  Sunday 
evening,  lived  with  an  aged  mother,  and  in  spite  of  his  socia- 
bility and  his  "fun,"  was  a  lonely  young  man.  He  hadn't,  my 
landlady  thought,  yet  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  be  of  much 
service  to  those  who  had.  "They,"  and  I  think  she  meant 
clergymen  in  general,  as  well  as  Mr  Crimble  in  particular,  "live 
a  shut-in,  complimentary  life,  and  people  treat  them  according. 
Though,  of  course,  there's  those  who  have  seen  a  bit  of  trouble 
and  cheeseparing  themselves,  and  the  Church  is  the  Church  when 
all's  said  and  done." 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

And  all  in  a  moment  I  caught  my  first  real  glimpse  of  the 
Church — no  more  just  a  number  <>i'  St  Peterses  than  I  was  so 
many  "organs,"'  or  Beechwood  was  so  many  errand  hoy-,  or,  for 
that  matter,  England  so  many  counties.  It  was  an  idea;  my 
attention  wandered. 

"But  he  was  very  anxious  ahout  the  concert,"  I  ventured  to 
protest. 

"I've  no  douht,"  said   .Mrs  Bowater  shortly. 

"Bui  then,"  I  remarked  with  a  sigh,  "Fanny  seems  to  make 
friends  wherever  she  goes." 

"It  i>n't  the  making."  replied  her  mother,  "hut  the  keeping." 

The  heavy  weeks  dragged  slowly  by,  and  a  one-sided  corre- 
spondence  is  like  posting  letters  into  a  dream.  My  progress  with 
Mis-,  Austen  was  slow,  because  she  made  me  think  and  argue 
with  her.  Apart  from  her,  I  devoured  every  fragment  of  print 
I  could  lay  hands  on.  For  when  fiction  palled  I  turned  to  facts, 
mastered  the  sheepshank,  the  running  bowline,  and  the  figure-of- 
eight;  and  wrestled  on  with  my  sea-craft.  It  was  a  hard  task, 
and  I  thought  it  fair  progress  if  in  thai  I  covered  half  a  knot  a 
day. 

Besides  which,  Mrs  Bowater  sometimes  played  with  me  at 
solitaire,  draughts,  or  cards.  In  these  she  was  a  martinet,  and 
would  appropriate  a  fat  pack  at  Beggar-my-neighbour  with  in- 
finite gusto.  How  silent  stood  the  little  room,  with  just  the 
click  of  the  cards,  the  simmering  of  the  kettle  on  the  hob,  and 
Mrs  Bowater's  occasional  gruff  "Four  to  pay."  We  might  have 
heen  on  a  desert  island.  I  must  confess  this  particular  game 
soon  grew  a  little  wearisome;  hut  I  played  on.  thinking  to  please 
my  partner,  and  that  she  had  chosen  it  for  her  own  sake. 
Until  one  evening,  with  a  stilled  sigh,  she  murmured  the  word, 
Crihhage !  I  was  shuffling  my  own  small  pack  at  the  moment, 
and  paused,  my  eyes  on  their  hacks,  in  a  rather  wry  amuse- 
ment. But  Fate  has  pretty  frequently  so  turned  the  tables 
on  me;  and  after  that,  "One  for  his  nob,"  sepulchrally  hroke 
the  night-silence  of  Beechwood  far  more  often  than  "Four  to  pay." 

Not  all  my  letters  to  Fanny  went  into  the  post.  My  landlady 
looked  a  little  askance  at  them,  and  many  of  the  unposted  one^ 
were  scrawled,  if  possihle  in  moonlight,  after  she  had  gone  to 
bed.  To  judge  from  my  recollection  of  other  letters  written  in 
my  young  days,  I  may  be  thankful  that  Fanny  was  one  of  those 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

practical  people  who  do  not  hoard  the  valueless.  I  can  still 
recall  the  poignancy  of  my  postscripts.  On  the  one  hand  :  "I 
beseech  you  to  write  to  me,  Fanny,  I  live  to  hear.  Last  night 
was  full  moon  again.  I  saw  you — you  only  in  her  glass."  On  the 
other :  "Henry  has  been  fighting.  There  is  a  chip  out  of  his  ear. 
Nine  centuries  nearer  now  !     And  how  is  'Monsieur  Crapaud'  ?" 


154 


Wanderslore 


Chapter  Eighteen 


AT  last  there  came  a  post  which  brought  me,  not  a  sermon 
from  Miss  Fenne,  nor  gossip  from  Pollie,  but  a  message 
from  the  Islands  of  the  Blest.  All  that  evening  and  night 
it  lay  unopened  under  my  pillow.  1  was  saving  it  up.  And  never 
have  I  passed  hours  so  studious  yet  so  barren  of  result.  It 
was  the  end  of  February.  A  sudden  hurst  of  light  and  sunshine 
had  fallen  on  the  world.  There  were  green  shining  grass  and 
new-fallen  lambs  in  the  meadows,  and  the  almond  tree  beyond 
my  window  was  in  full,  leafless  bloom.  As  for  the  larks,  they 
were  singing  of  Fanny.  The  next  morning  early,  about  seven 
o'clock,  her  letter  folded  up  in  its  small  envelope  in  the  bosom 
of  my  cloak,  I  was  out  of  the  house  and  making  my  way  to 
the  woods.  It  was  the  clear  air  of  daybreak  and  only  the 
large  stars  shook  faint  and  silvery  in  the  brightening  sky. 

Frost  powdered  the  ground  and  edged  the  grasses.  But  now 
tufts  of  primroses  were  in  blow  among  the  withered  mist  of 
leaves.  I  came  to  my  "observatory"  just  as  the  first  beams 
of  sunrise  smote  on  its  upper  boughs.  Yet  even  now  I  deferred 
the  longed-for  moment  and  hastened  on  between  the  trees,  beech 
and  brooding  yew,  by  what  seemed  a  faint  foot-track,  and  at  last 
came  out  on  a  kind  of  rising  on  the  edge  of  the  woods.  From  this 
green  eminence  for  the  first  time  I  looked  straight  across  its 
desolate  garden  to  Wanderslore. 

It  was  a  long,  dark,  many-windowed  house.  It  gloomed  sullenly 
back  at  me  beneath  the  last  of  night.  From  the  alarm  calls 
of  the  blackbirds  it  seemed  that  even  so  harmless  a  trespasser 
as  I  was  a  rare  spectacle.  A  tangle  of  brier  and  bramble  bushed 
frostily  over  its  grey  stone  terraces.  Nearer  at  hand  in  the 
hollow  stood  an  angled  house,  also  of  stone — and  as  small  com- 
pared with  Wanderslore  as  a  little  child  compared  with  its  mother. 
It  had  been  shattered  at  one  corner  by  a  falling  tree,  whose 
bole  still  lay  among  the  undergrowth.     The   faint  track  I  was 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

following  led  on,  and  apparently  past  it.  Breathless  and  trium- 
phant, I  presently  found  myself  seated  on  a  low  mossy  stone 
beside  it,  monarch  of  all  I  surveyed.  With  a  profound  sigh 
I  opened  my  letter : — 

"burn  this  letter,  and  show  the  other  to  m. 

"Dear  Midgetina, — Don't  suppose,  because  I  have  not  written,  that 
Fanny  is  a  monster,  though,  in  fact,  she  is.  I  have  often  thought  of 
you — with  your  stars  and  knick-knacks.  And  of  course  your  letters 
have  come.  My  thanks,  I  can't  really  answer  them  now  because  I 
am  trying  at  the  same  time  to  scribble  this  note  and  to  correct 
'composition'  papers  under  the  very  eyes  of  Miss  Stebbings — the 
abhorred  daughter  of  Argus  and  the  eldest  Gorgon.  Dear  me,  I  al- 
most envy  you,  Midgetina.  It  must  be  fun  to  be  like  a  tiny,  round- 
headed  pin  in  a  pin-cushion  and  just  mock  at  the  Workbox.  But  all 
things  in  moderation. 

"When  the  full  moon  came  last  I  remembered  our  vow.  She 
was  so  dazzling,  poor  old  wreck.  And  I  wondered,  as  I  blinked  up 
at  her,  if  you  would  not  some  clay  vanish  away  altogether — unless  you 
make  a  fortune  by  being  looked  at.  I  wish  I  could.  Only  would 
they  pay  enough?     That  is  the  question. 

"What  I  am  writing  about  now  is  not  the  moon,  but — don't  be 
amused ! — a  Man.  Not  Monsieur  Crapaud,  who  is  more  absurd  than 
ever ;  but  some  one  you  know,  Mr  Crimble.  He  has  sent  me  the  most 
alarming  letter  and  wants  me  to  marry  him.  It  is  not  for  the  first 
time  of  asking,  but  still  a  solemn  occasion.  Mother  once  said  that  he 
was  like  a  coquette — all  attention  and  no  intention.  Sad  to  say,  it  is 
the  other  way  round.  M.,  you  see,  always  judges  by  what  she  fears. 
/  by  what  this  Heart  tells  me. 

"Now  I  daren't  write  back  to  him  direct  (a)  because  I  wish  just 
now  to  say  neither  Yes  nor  No;  (b)  because  a  little  delay  will  benefit 
his  family  pride;  (c)  because  it  is  safer  not  to — he's  very  careless  and 
I  might  soon  want  to  change  my  mind;  (d)  because  that's  how  my 
fancy  takes  me;  and  (e)  because  I  love  you  exceedingly  and  know 
you  will  help  me. 

"When  no  answer  comes  to  his  letter,  he  will  probably  dare  another 
pilgrimage  to  Beechwood  Hill,  if  only  to  make  sure  that  I  am  not 
in  my  grave.  So  I  want  you  to  tell  him  secretly  that  /  have  received 
Jus  letter  and  that  T  am  giving  it  my  earnest  attention — let  alone  my 
prayers.  Tell  me  exactly  how  he  takes  this  answer;  then  1  will  write 
to  you  again.  I  am  sure,  Midgetina,  in  some  previous  life  you  must 
158 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


have  lived  in  the  tiny  rooms  in  the  Palace  at  Mantua — you  are  a  born 
intrigante. 

"///  my  bedroom,  11  p.m. — A  scheme  is  in  my  mind,  but  it  is  not  yet 
in  bloom,  and  you  may  infer  from  all  this  that  I  don't  care.  Often 
I  wish  this  were  so.  I  sat  in  front  of  my  eight  inches  of  grained 
looking-glass  last  night  till  it  seemed  some  god(dcss)  must  intervene. 
But  no.  -My  head  was  dark  and  empty.  1  could  hear  Mr  Oliphant 
cajoling  with  his  violin  in  the  distance — as  if  music  had  charms.  Oh, 
dear,  they  give  you  life,  and  leave  you  to  ask,  Why.  You  seem  to  be 
perfectly  contented  in  your  queer  little  prim  way  with  merely  asking. 
But  Fanny  Bowater  wants  an  answer,  or  she  will  make  one  up. 
Meanwhile,  search  for  a  scrap  of  magic  mushroom,  little  sister,  and 
come  nearer !  Some  day  I  will  tell  you  even  more  about  myself ! 
Meanwhile,  believe  me,  petitissimost  M.,  your  affec. — F. 

"PS.— Bum  this. 

"PPS. — What  I  mean  is,  that  he  must  be  made  to  realize  that  I 
will  not  and  cannot  give  him  an  answer  before  I  come  home — unless 
he  hears  meanwhile. 

"Burn  this:  the  other  letter  is  for  show  purposes." 

Fanny's  "other"  was  more  brief: — 

"Dear  Midgettna, — It  is  delightful  to  have  your  letters,  and  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself  for  not  answering  them  before.  But  I  will  do  so 
the  very  moment  there  is  a  free  hour.  Would  you  please  ask  mother 
with  my  love  to  send  me  some  handkerchiefs,  some  stockings,  and 
some  soap?  My  first  are  worn  with  weeping,  my  second  with  sitting 
still,  and  my  third  is  mottled — and  similarly  affects  the  complexion. 
But  Easter  draws  near,  and  I  am  sure  I  must  long  to  lie  home.  Did 
you  tell  mother  by  any  chance  of  your  midnight  astronomy  lesson? 
It  has  been  most  useful  when  all  other  baits  and  threats  have  failed 
to  teach  the  young  idea  how  to  shoot.  Truly  a  poet's  way  of  putting 
it.     Is  Mr  Crimble  still  visiting  his  charming  parishioner? 

"I  remain, 

"Yours  afree'ly. 

"Fanny  Bowater." 

Slowly,  self-conscious  word  by  word,  lingering  here  and  there, 
I  read  these  letters  through — then  through  again.  Then  I  lifted 
my  eyes  and  stared  for  a  while  over  my  left  shoulder  at  empty 
Wanderslore.  A  medley  of  emotions  strove  for  mastery,  and 
as  if  to  reassure  herself  the  "tiny,  round-headed  pin"  ki>sed  the 

159 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

signature,  whispering  languishingly  to  herself  in  the  great  garden : 
"I  love  you  exceedingly.  Oh,  Fanny,  I  love  you  exceedingly," 
and  hid  her  eyes  in  her  hands.  The  note-paper  was  very  faintly 
scented.  My  imagination  wandered  off  I  know  not  where ;  and 
returned,  elated  and  dejected.  Which  the  more  I  know  not. 
Then  I  folded  up  the  secret  letter  into  as  small  a  compass  as 
I  could,  dragged  back  a  loose,  flat  stone,  hid  it  away  in  the 
dry  crevice  beneath,  and  replaced  the  stone.  The  other  I  put 
into  my  silk  bag. 

I  emerged  from  these  labours  to  see  in  my  mind  Mrs  Bowater 
steadfastly  regarding  me,  and  behind  her  the  shadowy  shape 
of  Mr  Crimble,  with  I  know  not  what  of  entreaty  in  his  magni- 
fied dark  eyes.  I  smiled  a  little  ruefully  to  myself  to  think  that 
my  life  was  become  like  a  pool  of  deep  water  in  which  I  was  slowly 
sinking  down  and  down.  As  if,  in  sober  fact,  there  were  stones 
in  my  pocket,  or  leaden  soles  to  my  shoes.  It  was  more  like 
reading  a  story  about  myself,  than  being  myself,  and  what  was  , 
to  be  the  end  of  it  all?  I  thought  of  Fanny  married  to  Mr 
Crimble,  as  my  mother  was  married  to  my  father.  How  dark 
and  uncomfortable  a  creature  he  looked  beside  Fanny's  grace 
and  fairness.  And  would  Mrs  Crimble  sit  in  an  arm-chair  and 
watch  Fanny  as  Fanny  had  watched  me  ?  And  should  I  be  asked 
to  tea?  I  was  surprised  into  a  shudder.  Yet  I  don't  think  there 
would  have  been  any  wild  jealousy  in  my  heart — even  if  Fanny 
should  say,  Yes.  I  could  love  her  better,  perhaps,  if  she  would 
give  me  a  little  time.  And  what  was  really  keeping  her  back? 
Why  did  every  word  she  said  or  wrote  only  hide  what  she 
truly  meant? 

So,  far  from  mocking  at  the  Workbox,  I  was  only  helplessly 
examining  its  tangled  skeins.  Nor  was  I  criticizing  Fanny.  To 
help  her — that  was  my  one  burning  desire,  to  give  all  I  had, 
take  nothing.  In  a  vague,  and  possibly  priggish,  fashion,  I 
knew,  too,  that  I  wanted  to  help  her  against  herself.  Her  letter 
(and  perhaps  the  long  waiting  for  it)  had  smoothed  out  my  old 
excitements.  In  the  midst  of  these  musings  memory  suddenly 
alighted  on  the  question  in  the  letter  which  was  to  be  shown  to 
Mrs  Bowater:  about  the  star-gazing.  There  was  no  need  for 
that  now.  But  the  point  was,  had  not  Fanny  extorted  a  promise 
from  me  not  to  tell  her  mother  of  our  midnight  adventure? 
1 60 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

It  seemed  as  though  without  a  shred  of  warning  the   fair   face 
had  drawn  close  in  my  consciousness  and  was  looking  at  me  low 

and  fixedly,  like  a  snake  in  a  picture.     Why,  it  was  like  cheating 
at  cards!     Fascinated  and  repelled,  I  sank  again  into  reverie. 

"No,  no,  it's  cowardly,  Fanny,"  cried  aloud  a  voice  in  the 
midst  of  this  inward  argument,  as  startling  as  if  a  Granger 
had  addressed  me.  The  morning  was  intensely  still.  Sunbeams 
oul  of  the  sky  now  silvered  the  clustered  chimney  shafts  of 
Wanderslore.  Where  shadow  lay,  the  frost  gloomed  wondrously 
blue  on  the  dishevelled  terraces;  where  sun,  a  thin  smoke  of 
vapour  was  ascending  into  the  air.  The  plants  and  hushes 
around  me  were  knohhed  all  over  with  wax-green  buds.  The 
enormous  trees  were  faintly  coloured  in  their  twigs.  A  sun- 
heetle  staggered  out  among  the  pebbles  at  my  feet.  I  glanced 
at  ni)-  hands  ;  they  were  coral  pink  with  the  cold.  "I  love  you 
exceedingly — exceedingly,"  I  repeated,  though  this  time  I  knew 
not  to   whom. 

So  saying,  and,  even  as  I  said  it,  realizing  that  the  exceedingly 
was  not  my  own,  and  that  I  must  he  intelligent  even  if  I  was 
sentimental,  I  rose  from  my  stone,  and  turned  to  go  hack.  I 
thus  faced  the  worn,  small,  stone  house  again.  Instantly  I  was 
all  attention.  A  curious  feeling  came  over  me,  familiar,  ye1 
eluding  rememhrance.  It  meant  that  I  must  he  vigilant. 
Cautiously  I  edged  round  to  the  other  side  of  the  angled  wall, 
where  lay  the  fallen  tree.  Hard,  dark  buds  showed  on  it-  yet 
living  fringes.  Rather  than  clamber  over  its  sodden  bole,  I 
skirted  it  until  I  could  walk  beneath  a  lank,  upthrust  bough. 
At  every  few  steps  I  shrank  in  and  glanced  around  me,  then 
fixed  my  eyes — as  I  had  learned  to  do  by  my  stream-side  or 
when  star-gazing — on  a  single  object,  in  order  to  mark  what 
was  passing  on  the  outskirts  of  my  field  of  vision.  Nothing. 
I  was  alone  in  the  garden.  A  robin,  with  a  light  flutter  of  wing, 
perched  to  eye  me.  A  string  of  rooks  cawed  across  the  sky. 
Wanderslore  emptily  stared.  If,  indeed,  I  was  being  watched, 
then  my  watcher  was  no  less  circumspect  than  I.  Soon  I  was 
skirting  the  woods  again,  and  had  climbed  the  green  knoll  by 
which  I  had  descended  into  the  garden.  I  wheeled  sharply, 
searching  the  whole  course  of  my  retreat.      Nothing. 

When   I  opened  my   door,   Mrs  Bowater  and  Henrv   seemed 

161 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


to  be  awaiting  me.  Was  it  my  fancy  that  both  of  them  looked 
censorious  ?  Absently  she  stood  aside  to  let  me  pass  to  my  room, 
then  followed  me  in. 

"Such  a  lovely  morning,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  called  pleasantly 
down  from  my  bedroom,  as  I  stood  taking  off  my  cloak  in  front 
of  the  glass,  "and  not  a  soul  to  be  seen — though"  (and  my  voice 
was  better  under  command  with  a  hairpin  between  my  teeth)  ; 
"I  wouldn't  have  minded  if  there  had  been.     Not  now." 

"Ah,"  came  the  reply,  "but  you  must  be  cautious,  miss.  Boys 
will  be  boys ;  and,"  the  sound  tailed  away,  "men,  men."  I  heard 
the  door  open  and  close,  and  paused,  with  hands  still  lifted 
to  my  hair,  prickling  cold  all  over  at  this  strange  behaviour. 
What  could  I  have  been  found  out  in  now  ? 

Then  a  voice  sounded  seemingly  out  of  nowhere.  "What  I 
was  going  to  say,  miss,  is — A  letter's  come." 

With  that  I  drew  aside  the  curtain.  The  explanation  was 
simple.  Having  let  Henry  out  of  my  room,  in  which  he  was 
never  at  ease,  Mrs  Bowater  was  still  standing,  like  a  figure  in 
waxwork,  in  front  of  her  chiffonier,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  window. 
They  then  wheeled  on  me.     "Mr  Bowater,"  she  said. 

I  was  conscious  of  an  inexpressible  relief  and  of  the  pro- 
foundest  interest.  I  glanced  at  the  great  portrait.  "Mr 
Bowater?"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "Buenos  Ayres.  He's  broken  a  leg;  and 
so's  fixed  there  for  the  time  being." 

"Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  said,  "I  am  sorry.  And  how  terribly 
sudden." 

"Believe  me,  my  young  friend,"  she  replied  musingly,  "it's 
never  in  my  experience  what's  unprepared  for  that  finds  us 
least  expecting  it.  Not  that  it  was  actually  his  leg  was  in  my 
mind." 

What  was  chiefly  in  my  selfish  mind  was  the  happy  con- 
viction that  I  had  better  not  give  her  Fanny's  letter  just  then. 

"I  do  hope  he's  not  in  great  pain,"  was  all  I  found  to  say. 

She  continued  to  muse  at  me  in  her  queer,  sightless  fashion, 
almost  as  if  she  were  looking  for  help. 

"Oh,   dear   me,   miss,"   the   poor   thing   cried   brokenly,    "how 
should  your  young  mind    feel  what  an   old  woman   feels:    just 
grovelling  in  the  past?" 
162 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

She  was  gone;  and,  feeling  very  uncomfortable  in  my  humilia- 
tion, I  sat  down  and  stared — at  "the  workbox."  Why,  why 
indeed,  I  thought  angrily,  why  .should  1  be  responsible?  Well,  I 
suppose  it's  only  when  the  poor  fish  -sturgeon  or  sticklehack 
— struggles,  that  he  really  knows  he's  in  the  net. 


163 


Chapter   Nineteen 


ONE  of  the  many  perplexing  problems  that  now  hemmed  me 
in  was  brushed  away  by  Fortune  that  afternoon.     Between 
gloomy  bursts  of  reflection  on  Fanny's,  Mr  Crimble's,  Mrs 
Bowater's,  and  my  own  account,  I  had  been  reading  Miss  Austen ; 
and  at  about   four  o'clock   was   sharing  Chapter   XXIII.   with 
poor  Elinor : — 

"The  youthful  infatuation  of  nineteen  would  naturally  blind  her 
to  everything  but  her  beauty  and  good  nature,  but  the  four  succeeding 
years — years  which,  if  rationally  spent,  give  such  improvements  to 
the  understanding — must  have  opened  her  eyes  to  her  defects  of 
Education,  which  the  same  period  of  time,  spent  on  her  side  in  in- 
ferior society  and  more  frivolous  pursuits  .  .  ." 

I  say  I  was  reading  this  passage,  and  had  come  to  the  words 
— "and  more  frivolous  pursuits,"  when  an  unusually  imperative 
rat-tat-tat  fell  upon  the  outer  door,  and  I  emerged  from  my  book 
to  discover  that  an  impressive  white-horsed  barouche  was  drawn 
up  in  the  street  beyond  my  window.  The  horse  tossed  its  head 
and  chawed  its  frothy  bit;  and  the  coachman  sat  up  beside  his 
whip  in  the  sparkling  frosty  afternoon  air.  My  heart  gave  a 
thump,  and  I  was  still  seeking  vaguely  to  connect  this  event 
with  myself  or  with  Mr  Bowater  in  Buenos  Ayres,  when  the 
door  opened  and  a  lady  entered  whose  plumed  and  purple  bonnet 
was  as  much  too  small  for  her  head  as  she  herself  was  too  large 
for  the  room.  Yet  in  sheer  dimensions  this  was  not  a  very 
large  lady.     It  was  her  "presence"  that  augmented  her. 

She  seemed,  too,  to  be  perfectly  accustomed  to  these  special 
proportions,  and  with  a  rather  haughty,  "Thank  you,"  to  Mrs 
Bowater,  winningly  announced  that  she  was  Lady  Pollacke,  "a 
friend,  a  mutual  friend,  as  I  understand,  of  dear  Mr  Crimble's." 

Though  a  mauvish  pink  in  complexion,  Lady  Pollacke  was  so 
like  her  own  white  horse  that  whinnyingly  rather  than  winningly 
would  perhaps  have  been  the  apter  word.  I  have  read  somewhere 
164 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

that  this  human  resemblance  to  horses  sometimes  accompanies 
unusual  intelligence.  The  poet,  William  Wordsworth,  was  like 
a  horse;  1  have  seen  his  pint  rail.  And  I  should  like  to 
Mean  Swift's.  Whether  or  not,  the  unexpected  arrival  of  this 
visitor  betrayed  me  into  some  little  gaucherie,  and  for  a  moment 
I  still  sat  on,  as  she  had  discovered  me,  literally  "floored"  hy 
my  novel.  Then  1  scrambled  with  what  dignity  1  could  to  my 
feet,  and  chased  after  my  manners. 

"And  not  merely  that,"  continued  my  visitor,  seating  herself  on 
a  horsehair  easy-chair,  "hut  among  my  still  older  friends  is 
Mr  Pellew.  So  you  see — you  see,"  she  repeated,  apparently  a  little 
dazzled  by  the  light  of  my  window,  "that  we  need  no  introduction, 
and  that  I  know  all — all  the  circumstances."  She  lowered  a 
plump,  white-kidded  hand  to  her  lap,  as  if,  providentially,  there  all 
the  circumstances  law 

Unlike  Mr  Crimble,  Lady  Pollacke  had  not  come  to  make  ex- 
cuses, but  to  bring  me  an  invitation — nothing  less  than  to  take  tea 
with  her  on  the  following  Thursday  afternoon.  But  first  she  hoped 
— she  was  sure,  in  fact,  and  she  satisfied  herself  with  a  candid  gaze 
round  my  apartment — that  I  was  comfortable  with  Mrs  liowater; 
"a  thoroughly  trustworthy  and  sagacious  woman,  though,  perhaps, 
a  little  eccentric  in  address." 

I  assured  her  that  I  was  so  comfortable  that  some  of  my  happiest 
hours  were  spent  gossiping  with  my  landlady  over  my  supper. 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  "that  class  of  person  tells  us  such  very  in- 
teresting things  occasionally,  do  they  not?  Yet  I  am  convinced 
that  the  crying  need  in  these  days  is  for  discrimination.  Uplift, 
by  all  means,  hut  we  mustn't  confuse.  What  does  the  old  proverb 
say:  Festina  lente:  there's  still  truth  in  that.  Now.  had  1  known 
your  father — but  there;  we  must  not  rake  in  old  ashes.  We  are 
clean,  I  see ;  and  quiet  and  secluded." 

Her  equine  glance  made  a  rapid  circuit  of  the  photographs  and 
ornaments  that  diversified  the  walls,  and  I  simply  couldn't  help 
thinking  what  a  queer  little  cage  they  adorned  for  so  large  and 
handsome  a  bird,  the  kind  of  bird,  as  one  might  say,  that  is  less 
weight  than  magnitude. 

I  was  still  casting  my  eye  up  and  down  her  silk  and  laces  when 
she  abruptly  turned  upon  me  with  a  direct  question  :  "You  sel- 
dom, 1  suppose,  go  out?" 

Possibly  if  Lady  Pollacke  had  not  at  this  so  composedly  turned 

165 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

her  full  face  on  me — with  its  exceedingly  handsome  nose — her  bon- 
net might  have  remained  only  vaguely  familiar.  Now  as  I  looked 
at  her,  it  was  as  if  the  full  moon  had  risen.  She  was,  without  the 
least  doubt  in  the  world,  the  lady  who  had  bowed  to  Mr  Crimble 
from  her  carriage  that  fateful  afternoon.  A  little  countenance  is 
not,  perhaps,  so  tell-tale  as  a  large  one.  (I  remember,  at  any  rate, 
the  horrid  shock  I  once  experienced  when  my  father  set  me  up  on 
his  hand  one  day  to  show  me  my  own  face,  many  times  magnified, 
in  his  dressing-room  shaving-glass.)  But  my  eyes  must  have  nar- 
rowed a  little,  for  Lady  Pollacke's  at  once  seemed  to  set  a  little 
harder.     And  she  was  still  awaiting  an  answer  to  her  question. 

"  'Go  out' !"  I  repeated  meditatively,  "not  very  much,  Lady  Pol- 
lacke ;  at  least  not  in  crowded  places.     The  boys,  you  know." 

"Ah,  yes,  the  boys.'1'  It  was  Mr  Crimble's  little  dilemma  all  over 
again :  Lady  Pollacke  was  evidently  wondering  whether  I  knew 
she  knew  I  knew. 

"But  still,"  I  continued  cheerfully,  "it  is  the  looker-on  that  sees 
most  of  the  game,  isn't  it?" 

Her  eyelids  descended,  though  her  face  was  still  lifted  up. 
"Well,  so  the  proverb  says,"  she  agreed,  with  the  utmost  cordiality. 
It  was  at  this  moment — as  I  have  said — that  she  invited  me  to  tea. 

She  would  come  for  me  herself,  she  promised.  "Now  wouldn't 
that  be  very  nice  for  us  both — quite  a  little  adventure  ?" 

I  was  not  perfectly  certain  of  the  niceness,  but  might  not  Mr 
Crimble  be  a  fellow-guest;  and  hadn't  I  an  urgent  and  anxious 
mission  with  him  ?  I  smiled  and  murmured ;  and,  as  if  her  life  had 
been  a  series  of  such  little  social  triumphs,  my  visitor  immediately 
rose;  and,  I  must  confess,  in  so  doing  seemed  rather  a  waste  of 
space. 

"Then  that's  settled :  Thursday  afternoon.  We  must  wrap  up," 
she  called  gaily  through  her  descending  veil.  "This  treacherous 
month !  It  has  come  in  like  a  lamb,  but" — and  she  tugged  at  her 
gloves,  still  scrutinizing  me  fixedly  beneath  her  eyelids,  "but  it  will 
probably  go  out  like  a  lion."  As  if  to  illustrate  this  prediction,  she 
swept  away  to  the  door,  leaving  Mrs  Bowater's  little  parlour  and 
myself  to  gather  our  scattered  wits  together  as  best  we  could,  while 
her  carriage  rolled  away. 

Alas,  though  I  love  talking  and  watching  and  exploring,  how 
could  I  be,  even  at  that  age,  a  really  social  creature?  Though 
Lady  Pollacke  had  been  politeness  itself,  the  remembrance  of  her 
166 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bonnet  in  less  favourable  surroundings  was  still  in  my  mind'-  eye. 
If  anything,  then,  her  invitation  slightly  depressed  me.  Besides, 
Thursday  never  was  a  favourite  day  of  mine.  It  is  said  to  have 
only  one  lucky  In  air— the  lawn.     But  this  is  not  tea- 

time.     Worse  still,  the  coming  Thursday  seemed  to  ha  ked 

all  the  virtue  out  of  the  Wed  '  in  between.  I  prefer  to  see 
the  future  stretching  out  boundless  and  empty  in  front  of  me — 
like  the  savannas  of  Robinson  Cru  sland.     Visitors,  and  I  am 

quite  sure  he  would  have  agreed  with  me,  are  hardly  at  times  to  be 
distinguished  from  visitation  . 

All  this  merely  means  that  1  was  a  rather  green  and  backward 
young  woman,  and,  far  worse,  unashamed  of  being  so.  Here  was 
one  of  the  greatest  ladies  of  Beechwood  lavishing  attentions  upon 
me,  and  all  I  was  thinking  was  how  splendid  an  appearance  she 
would  have  made  a  few  days  before  if  she  had  borrowed  his  whip 
from  her  coachman  and  dispersed  m  little  mob  with  it,  as  had  Mrs 
Stocks  with  her  duster.  But  noblesse  oblige;  Mr  Crimble  had  been 
compelled  to  consider  my  feelings,  and  no  doubt  Lady  Pollacke  had 
Seen  compelled  to  consider  his. 

The  next  day  was  fine,  but  I  overslept  myself  and  was  robbed 
of  my  morning  walk.  For  many  hours  I  was  alone.  Mrs 
Bowater  had  departed  on  one  of  her  shopping  bouts.  So,  who- 
ever knocked,  knocked  in  vain;  and  I  listened  to  such  efforts  in 
secret  and  unmannerly  amusement.  I  wonder  if  ever  ghosts 
come  knocking  like  that  on  the  doors  of  the  mind;  and  it  isn't  that 
one  won't  hear,  but  can't.  My  afternoon  was  spent  in  an  anxious 
examination  of  my  wardrobe.  Four  o'clock  punctually  arrived, 
and,  almost  as  punctually,  Lady  Pollacke.  Soon,  under  Mrs 
Bowater's  contemplative  gaze,  I  was  mounted  up  on  a  pile  of 
cushions,  and  we  were  howling  along  in  most  inspiriting  fashion 
through  the  fresh  March  air.  Strangely  enough,  when  during 
our  progress,  eyes  were  now  bent  in  my  direction.  Lady  Pollacke 
seemed  copiously  to  enjoy  their  interest.     This  was  ■  illy  the 

case  when  she  was  acquainted  with  their  owners;  and  bowed  her 
bow  in  return. 

"Quite  a  little  reception    for  von,"  she  bi  I   at  me,  after  a 

particulavlv   r<  able  carria  d  cast  its  occupants'  scan 

modulated  glances  in  my  direction.  How  strange  is  human- char- 
acter! To  an  intelligent  onlooker,  my  other  little  reception  must 
have  been  infinitely  more  inspiring;  and  yet  she  had  almost  wan- 

167 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tonly  refused  to  take  any  part  in  it.  Now,  supposing  I  had  been 
Royalty  or  a  corpse  run  over  in  the  street.  .  .  .  But  we  were  come 
to  our  journey's  end. 

Brunswick  House  was  a  fine,  square,  stone-edged  edifice,  dom- 
inating its  own  "grounds."  Regiments  of  crocuses  stood  with 
mouths  wide  open  in  its  rich  loam.  Its  gateposts  were  surmounted 
by  white  balls  of  stone  ;  and  the  gravel  was  of  so  lively  a  colour  that 
it  must  have  been  new  laid.  Wherever  I  looked,  my  eyes  were 
impressed  by  the  best  things  in  the  best  order.  This  was  as  true 
of  Lady  Pollacke's  clothes,  as  of  her  features,  of  her  gateposts,  and 
her  drawing-room.  And  the  next  most  important  thing  in  the 
last  was  its  light. 

Light  simply  poured  in  upon  its  gilt  and  brass  and  pale  maroon 
from  two  high  wide  windows  staring  each  other  down  from  be- 
tween their  rich  silk  damask  curtains.  It  was  like  entering  an 
enormous  bath,  and  it  made  me  timid.  In  the  midst  of  a  large 
animal's  skin,  beneath  a  fine  white  marble  chimney-piece,  and 
under  an  ormolu  clock,  the  parlour-maid  was  directed  to  place  a 
cherry-coloured  stool  for  me.  Here  I  seated  myself.  With  a 
fine,  encouraging  smile  my  hostess  left  me  for  a  few  minutes  to 
myself.  Maybe  because  an  embroidered  fire-screen  that  stood  near 
reminded  me  of  Miss  Fenne,  I  pulled  myself  together.  "Don't  be 
a  ninny,''  I  heard  myself  murmur.  My  one  hope  and  desire  in  this 
luxurious  solitude  was  for  the  opportunity  to  deliver  my  message 
to  Mr  Crimble.  This  was  not  only  a  visit,  it  was  an  adventure. 
I  looked  about  the  flashing  room ;  and  it  rather  stared  back  at  me. 

The  first  visitor  to  appear  was  none  but  Miss  Bullace,  whose 
recitation  of  "The  Lady's  'Yes'  '  had  so  peculiarly  inspirited 
Fanny.  She  sat  square  and  dark  with  her  broad  lap  in  front  of 
her,  and  scrutinized  me  as  if  110  emergency  ever  daunted  her. 
And  Lady  Pollacke  recounted  the  complexity  of  ties  that  had 
brought  us  together.  Miss  Bullace,  alas,  knew  neither  Mr  Am- 
brose  Pellew,  nor  my  godmother,  nor  even  my  godmother's  sister, 
Augusta  Fenne.  Indeed  I  seemed  to  have  no  claim  at  all  on  her 
recognition  until  she  inquired  who; her  it  was  not  Augusta  Fcnne's 
cousin,  Dr  Julius  Fenne,  who  had  died  suddenly  while  on  a  visit 
to  the  Bermudas.  Apparently  it  was.  Wo  all  at  once  fell  into 
better  spirits,  which  were  still  more  refreshed  when  Lady  Pol- 
lacke remarked  that  Augusta  had  also  "gone  off  like  that,"  and 
that  Fennes  were  a  doomed  family. 
1 68 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Bui  merely  to  smile  and  smile  is  not  to  partake;  so  I  ventured 
to  suggest  that  to  judge  from  my  la-t  letter  from  my  godmother 
she,  at  any  rate,  was  in  her  usual  health;  and  I  added,  rather  more 
cheerfully  perhaps  than  the  fad  warranted,  that  my  family  seemed 
to  he  doomed  too.  since,  so  far  a  I  was  aware,  1  myself  was  the 
la>t  of  it  left  alive. 

At  this  a  sudden  gush  of  shame  welled  up  in  me  at  the  thought 
that  through  all  my  troubles  I  had  never  once  rememhered  the 
kindnesses  of  my  step-grandfather;  that  he,  too,  might  be  dead.  1 
was  so  rapt  away  by  the  thought  that  I  caught  only  the  last  three 
words  of  Miss  I'.ullace's  murmured  aside  to  Lady  Pollacke,  viz., 
"not  blush  unseen." 

Lady  Pollacke  rai  ed  her  eyebrows  .and  nodded  vigorously;  and 
then  to  my  joy  Mr  Crimble  and  a  venerable  old  lady  with  silver 
curl>  clustering  out  of  her  bonnet  were  shown  into  the  room.  He 
looked  pale  and  absent  as  he  bent  himself  down  to  take  my  hand. 
It  was  almost  as  if  in  secret  collusion  we  had  breathed  the  wind 
Fanny  together.  Airs  Crimble  was  supplied  with  a  tea-cup,  and 
her  front  teeth  were  soon  unusually  busy  with  a  slice  of  thin  bread 
and  butter.  Eating  or  drinking,  her  intense  old  eyes  dwelt  dis- 
tantly but  assiduously  on  my  small  shape;  and  she  at  last  entered 
into  a  long  story  of  how,  as  a  girl,  she  had  been  taken  to  a  circus — 
a  circus:  and  there  had  seen.  .  .  .  But  what  she  had  seen  Mr 
Crimble  refused  to  let  her  divulge.  lie  jerked  forward  so 
hastily  that  his  fragment  of  toasted  scone  rolled  off  his  plate  into 
the  wild  beast's  skin,  and  while,  with  some  little  difficulty,  he  was 
retrieving  it,  he  assured  us  that  his  mother's  memory  was  little 
short  of  miraculous,  and  particularly  in  relation  to  the  past. 

"1  have  noticed,"  he  remarked,  in  what  I  thought  a  rather  hollow 
voice,  "that  the  more  advanced  in  years  we — er — happily  become, 
the  more  closely  we  return  to  childhood." 

"Senile.  .  ."     I  began  timidly,  remembering  Dr  Phelps's  phrase. 

But  Mr  Crimble  hastened  on.  "Why,  mother."  he  appealed  to 
her,  with  an  indulgent  laugh,  'I  suppose  to  you  1  am  still  nothing 
but  a  small  boy  about  that  height  ?"  lie  stretched  out  a  ringless 
left  hand  about  twenty-four  inches  above  the  rose-patterned  carpet. 

The  old  lady  was  not  to  be  so  easily  smoothed  over.  "You  in- 
terrupted me,  Harold,"  she  retorted,  with  some  little  show  of  in- 
dignation, "in  what  I  was  telling  Lady  Pollacke.  Even  a  child  of 
that  size  would  have  been  a  perfect  monstrosity." 

II    H, 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

A  lightning  grimace  swept  over  Miss  Bullace's  square  features. 

"Ah,  ah,  ah!"  laughed  Mr  Crimble,  "I  am  rebuked,  I  am  in 
the  corner !  Another  scone,  Lady  Pollacke  ?"  Mrs  Crimble  was 
a  beautiful  old  lady;  but  it  was  with  a  rather  unfriendly 
and  feline  eye  that  she  continued  to  regard  me;  and  I  wondered 
earnestly  if  Fanny  had  ever  noticed  this  characteristic. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Lady  Pollacke,  with  con- 
viction, "our  memories  rust  for  want  of  exercise.  Where,  physi- 
cally speaking,  would  you  be,  Mr  Crimble,  if  you  hadn't  the 
parish  to  tramp  over  ?  Precisely  the  same  with  the  mind.  Every 
day  I  make  a  personal  effort  to  commit  some  salient  fact  to 
memory — such  a  fact,  for  a  trivial  example,  as  the  date  of 
the  Norman  Conquest.  The  consequence  is,  my  husband  tells 
me,  I  am  a  veritable  encyclopaedia.  My  father  took  after  me. 
Alexander  the  Great,  I  have  read  somewhere,  could  address  by 
name — though  one  may  assume  not  Christian  name — every 
soldier  in  his  army.  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  a  great  genius, 
poor  man,  knew  by  heart  every  book  he  had  ever  read.  A 
veritable  mine  of  memory.  On  the  other  hand,  I  once  had  a 
parlour-maid,  Sarah  Jakes,  who  couldn't  remember  even  the 
simplest  of  her  duties,  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  constant 
supervision  would  have  given  us  port  with  the  soup." 

"Perfectly,  perfectly  true,"  assented  Miss  Bullace.  "Now  mine 
is  a  verbal  memory.  My  mind  is  a  positive  magnet  for  words. 
Method,  of  course,  is  everything.  I  weld.  Let  us  say  that  a 
line  of  a  poem  terminates  with  the  word  bower,  and  the  next 
line  commences  with  she,  I  commit  these  to  memory  as  one 
word — Bozvershee — and  so  master  the  sequence.  My  old  friend, 
Lady  Bovill  Porter — we  were  schoolfellows — recommended  this 
method.  It  was  Edmund  Kean's,  I  fancy,  or  some  other  well- 
known  actor's.  How  else  indeed,  could  a  great  actor  realise 
what  he  was  doing?     Word-perfect,  you  see,  he  is  free." 

"Exactly,  exactly,"  sagely  nodded  Mr  Crimble,  but  with  a 
countenance  so  colourless  and  sad  that  it  called  back  to  my 
remembrance  the  picture  of  a  martyr — of  St  Sebastian,  I  think 
— that  used  to  hang  up  in  my  mother's  room. 

"And  you?" — I  discovered  Lady  Pollacke  was  rather  shrilly 
inquiring  of  me.  "Is  yours  a  verbal  memory  like  Miss  Bullace's; 
or  are  you  in  my  camp?" 

"Ah,  there,"  cried  Mr  Crimble,  tilting  back  his  chair  in  sudden 
170 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

enthusiasm.     "Miss  M.  positively  puts  me  to  shame.     And  poetry, 
Miss  Bullace;  even  your  wonderful  repertory!" 
"You  mean  Miss  M.  recitesl  '  inquired  Miss  Bullace,  leaning 

forward  over  her  lap.  "But  how  entrancing!  It  is  we,  then, 
who  are  birds  of  a  feather.  And  how  I  should  adore  to  hear  a 
fellow-enthusiast.  Now,  won't  you.  Lady  Pollacke,  join  your 
entreaties  to  mine?     Just  a  stanza  or  two!" 

Ai  chill  crept  through  my  hones.  I  had  accepted  Lady 
Pollacke's  invitation,  thinking  my  mere  presence  would  be  enter- 
tainment enough,  and  because  I  knew  it  was  important  to  see 
life,  and  immensely  important  to  see  Mr  Crimble.  In  actual 
fact  it  seemed  I  had  hopped  for  a  moment  not  out  of  my 
cage,  but  merely,  as  Fanny  had  said,  into  another  compartment 
of  it. 

"But  Mr  Crimble  and  I  were  only  talking,"  I  managed  to 
utter. 

"Oh,  now,  but  do !     Delicious !"  pleaded  a  trio  of  voices. 

Their  faces  had  suddenly  become  a  little  strained  and  un- 
natural. The  threat  of  further  persuasion  lifted  me  almost 
automatically  to  my  feet.  With  hunted  eyes  fixed  at  last  on 
a  small  marble  bust  with  stooping  head  and  winged  brow  that 
stood  on  a  narrow  table  under  the  window,  I  recited  the  first 
thing  that  sprang  to  remembrance — an  old  poem  my  mother 
had  taught  me,  Torn  o'  Bedlam. 

"The  moon's  my  constant  mistress, 
And  the  lovely  owl  my  marrow ; 
The  flaming-  drake, 
And  the  night-crow,  make 
Me  music  to  my  sorrow. 

I   know   more   than    Apollo ; 
For  oft  when  he  lies  sleeping, 
I  behold  the  stars 
At  mortal  wars. 
And  the  rounded  welkin  weeping. 

The  moon  embraces  her  shepherd, 

And  the  Queen  of  Love  her  warrior; 
While  the  first  does  horn 
The  stars  of  the  morn. 
And  the  next  the  heavenly   farrier.  .  .  ." 

171 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Throughout  these  first  three  stanzas  all  went  well.  So  rapt 
was  my  audience  that  I  seemed  to  be  breaking  the  silence  of 
the  seas  beyond  their  furthest  Hebrides.  But  at  the  first  line 
of  the  fourth — at  "With  a  heart" — my  glance  unfortunately 
wandered  off  from  the  unheeding  face  of  the  image  and  swam 
through  the  air,  to  be  caught,  as  it  were,  like  fly  by  spider,  by 
Miss  Bullace's  dark,  fixed  gaze,  that  lay  on  me  from  under  her 
flat  hat. 

'With  a  heart,'  "  I  began ;  and  failed.  Some  ghost  within 
had  risen  in  rebellion,  sealed  my  tongue.  It  seemed  to  my 
irrational  heart  that  I  had — how  shall  I  say  it? — betrayed  my 
"stars,"  betrayed  Fanny,  that  she  and  they  and  I  could  never  be 
of  the  same  far,  quiet  company  again.  So  the  "furious  fancies" 
were  never  shared.  The  blood  ran  out  of  my  cheek;  I  stuck 
fast ;  and  shook  my  head. 

At  which  quite  a  little  tempest  of  applause  spent  itself  against 
the  walls  of  Lady  Pollacke's  drawing-room,  an  applause  reinforced 
by  that  of  a  little  round  old  gentleman,  who,  unnoticed,  had 
entered  the  room  by  a  farther  door,  and  was  now  advancing 
to  greet  his  guest.  He  was  promptly  presented  to  me  on 
the  beast-skin,  and  with  the  gentlest  courtesy  begged  me  to  con- 
tinue. 

'With  a  heart,'  now ;  'with  a  heart  .  .  .'  "  he  prompted  me, 
"a  most  important  organ,  though  less  in  use  nowadays  than  when 
/  was  a  boy." 

But  it  was  in  vain.  Even  if  he  had  asked  me  only  to  whisper 
the  rest  of  the  poem  into  his  long,  pink  ear,  for  his  sake  alone, 
I  could  not  have  done  so.  Moreover,  Mr  Crimble  was  still  nod- 
ding his  head  at  his  mother  in  confirmation  of  his  applause; 
and  Miss  Bullace  was  assuring  me  that  mine  was  a  poem  entirely 
unknown  to  her,  that,  "with  a  few  little  excisions/'  it  should 
be  instantly  enshrined  in  her  repertory — "though  perhaps  a  little 
bizarre!"  and  that  if  I  made  trial  of  Lady  Bovill  Porter's 
Bowershce  method,  my  memory  would  never  again  play  me  false. 

"The  enunciation— am  T  not  right,  Sir  Walter?— as  distinct 
from  the  elocution— was  flawless.  And  really,  quite  remarkable 
vocal  power!" 

Amidst  these  smiles  and  delights,  and  what  with  the  brassy 
heat  of  the  fire  and  the  scent  of  the  skin,  I  thought  I  should 
172 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

presently  faint,  and  caught,  as  it"  at  a  straw,  at  the  bust  in  the 

window. 

"How  lovely!"  I  cried,  with  pointing  finger.  .  .  . 

At  that,  silence  fell,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Lady  Pollacke 
managed  to  follow  the  unexpected  allusion,  and  led  me  off  for 

a  closer  inspection.  In  the  hushed  course  of  our  progress  thither 
I  caught  out  of  the  distance  two  quavering  words  uttered  as  if 
in  expostulation,  "apparent  intelligence."  It  was  Mrs  Crimble 
addressing  Sir  Walter  Pollacke. 

''Classical,  you  know,"  Lady  Pollacke  was  sonorously  inform- 
ing me,  as  we  stood  together  before  the  marble  head.  "Charm- 
ing pose,  don't  you  think?  Though,  as  we  see,  only  a  frag- 
ment— one  of  Sir  Walter's  little  hobbies." 

1  looked  up  at  the  serene,  winged,  sightless  face,  and  a  whisper 
sounded  on  and  on  in  my  mind  in  its  mute  presence.  "1  know 
more  than  Apollo;  I  know  more  than  Apollo."  I  low  hi  ■■ 
that  this  mere  deaf-and-dumbness  should  seem  more  real,  more 
human  even,  than  anything  or  any  one  else  in  Lady  Pollacl 
elegant  drawing-room.  Put  self-possession  was  creeping  back. 
"Who,"  1  asked,  "i.vhe?     And  who  sculped  him?" 

"Scalped  him?"  cried  Lady  Pollacke,  poring  down  on  me  in 
dismay. 

"Cut  him  out?" 

"Ah,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  a  quiet  voice,  "that  I  cannot 
tell  you.  It  is  the  head  of  Hypnos,  Sleep,  you  know,  the  son 
of  Night  and  brother  of  Death.  (  hie  wing,  .as  you  see,  has  been 
broken  away  in  preparation  for  this  more  active  age,  and  yet 
.  .  .  only  a  replica,  of  course";  the  voice  trembled  into  richness, 
"but  an  exceedingly  pleasant  example.  It  gives  me  rare  pleasure, 
rare  pleasure,"  he  stood  softly  rocking,  hands  under  coat-tails, 
eyes  drinking  me  in,  "to — to  have  your  companionship." 

What  pleasure  his  words  gave  me,  I  could  not — can  never 
— express.     Then  and  there  I  was  his  slave  for  ever. 

"Walter,"  murmured  Lady  Pollacke,  as  if  fondly,  smiling 
down  on  the  rotund  old  gentleman,  "you  are  a  positive  peacock 
over  your  little  toys;  is  he  not,  Mr  Crimble?  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  woman  wasting  her  affections  on  the  inanimate?  Even  a 
doll,  I  am  told,  is  an  infant  in  disguise." 

But    Mr   Crimble   had   approached   us   not   to   discuss   infants 

173 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

or  woman,  but  to  tell  Lady  Pollacke  that  her  carriage  was  awaiting 

me. 

"Then  pity  'tis,  'tis  true,"  cried  she,  as  if  in  Miss  Bullace's 
words.  "But  please,  Miss  M.,  it  must  be  the  briefest  of  adieus. 
There  are  so  many  of  my  friends  who  would  enjoy  your  company 
— and  those  delightful  recitations.  Walter,  will  you  see  that 
everything's  quite — er — convenient  ?" 

I  am  sure  Lady  Pollacke's  was  a  flawless  savoir  faire,  yet, 
when  I  held  out  my  hand  in  farewell,  her  cheek  crimsoned,  it 
seemed,  from  some  other  cause  than  stooping.  The  crucial 
moment  had  arrived.  If  one  private  word  was  to  be  mine  with 
Mr  Crimble,  it  must  be  now  or  never.  To  my  relief  both 
gentlemen  accompanied  me  out  of  the  room,  addressing  their 
steps  to  mine.  Urgency  gave  me  initiative.  I  came  to  a  stand- 
still on  the  tesselated  marble  of  the  hall,  and  this  time  proffered 
my  hand  to  Sir  Walter.  He  stooped  himself  double  over  it; 
and  I  tried  in  vain  to  dismiss  from  remembrance  a  favourite 
reference  of  Pollie's  to  the  guinea-pig  held  up  by  its  tail. 

I  wonder  now  what  Sir  W.  would  have  said  of  me  in  his 
autobiography:  "And  there  stood  a  flaxen  spelican  in  the  midst 
of  the  hearthrug ;  blushing,  poor  tiny  thing,  over  her  little 
piece  like  some  little  bread-and-butter  miss  fresh  from  school." 
Something  to  that  effect?  I  wonder  still  more  who  taught  him 
so  lovable  a  skill  in  handling  that  spelican  ? 

"There;  good-bye,"  said  he,  "and  the  blessing,  my  dear  young 
lady,  of  a  fellow  fanatic." 

He  turned  about  and  ascended  the  staircase.  Except  for  the 
parlour-maid  who  was  awaiting  me  in  the  porch,  Mr  Crimble 
and  I  were  alone. 


174 


Chapter  Twenty 

M 


"TV  1%  R  CRIMBLE,"  I  whispered,  "I  have  a  message." 

A   tense   excitement    seized   him.     His    face   turned   a 
dusky  yellow.     How  curious  it  is  to  see  others  as  they 
must  sometimes  see  ourselves.     Should  /  have  gasped  like  that, 
if  Mr  Crimble  had  been  Fanny's  Mercury? 

"A  letter  from  Miss  Bowater,"  I  whispered,  "and  I  am  to 
say,"  the  cadaverous  face  was  close  above  me,  its  sombre  melting 
eyes  almost  bulging  behind  their  glasses,  "I  am  to  say  that  she 
is  giving  yours  'her  earnest  attention,  let  alone  her  prayers.'' 

1  remember  once,  when  Adam  Waggett  as  a  noisy  little  boy 
was  playing  in  the  garden  at  home,  the  string  of  his  toy  bow 
suddenly  snapped:  Mr  Crimble  drew  back  as  straight  and  as 
swiftly  as  that.  His  eyes  rained  unanswerable  questions.  But 
the  parlourmaid  had  turned  to  meet  me,  and  the  next  moment 
she  and  I  were  side  by  side  in  Lady  Pollacke's  springy  carriage 
en  route  for  my  lodgings.  I  had  given  my  message,  but  never 
for  an  instant  had  I  anticipated  it  would  have  so  overwhelming 
an  effect. 

There  must  have  been  something  inebriating  in  Lady  Pollacke's 
tea.  My  mind  was  still  simmering  with  excitement.  And  yet, 
during  the  whole  of  that  journey,  I  spent  not  a  moment  on  Mr 
(Trimble's  or  Fanny's  affairs,  or  even  on  Brunswick  House,  but 
on  the  dreadful  problem  whether  or  not  I  ought  to  "tip"  the  par- 
lourmaid, and  if  so.  with  how  much.  Where  had  1  picked  this 
enigma  up?  Possibly  from  some  chance  reference  of  my  father's. 
It  made  me  absent  and  harassed.  I  saw  not  a  face  or  a  Mower; 
and  even  when  the  parlourmaid  was  actually  waiting  at  my  re- 
quesl  in  Mrs  Bowater's  passage,  1  stood  over  my  money-chest, 
still  incapable  of  coming  to  a  decision. 

Instinct  prevailed.  Just  as  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  com- 
plete Tom  o'  Bedlam  with  Miss  Bullace  looking  out  of  her 
eyes  at  me,  so  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  offer  money  to  Lady 
Pollacke's  nice  prim  parlourmaid.     Instead   I  hastily   scrabbled 

175 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

up  in  tissue  paper  a  large  fiat  brooch — a  bloodstone  set  in  pinch- 
beck— a  thing  of  no  intrinsic  value,  alas,  but  precious  to  me 
because  it  had  been  the  gift  of  an  old  servant  of  my  mother's. 
I  hastened  out  and  lifting  it  over  my  head,  pushed  it  into  her 
hand. 

Dear  me,  how  ashamed  of  this  impulsive  action  I  felt  when 
I  had  regained  my  solitude.  Should  I  not  now  be  the  jest  of 
the  Pollacke  kitchen  and  drawing-room  alike? — for  even  in  my 
anxiety  to  attain  Mr  Crimble's  private  ear,  I  had  half -consciously 
noticed  what  a  cascade  of  talk  had  gushed  forth  when  Mr  Crimble 
had  closed  the  door  of  the  latter  behind  him. 

That  evening  I  shared  with  Mrs  Bowater  my  experiences 
at  Brunswick  House.  So  absorbed  was  I  in  my  own  affairs 
that  I  deliberately  evaded  any  reference  to  hers.  Yet  her  pallid 
face,  seemingly  an  inch  longer  and  many  shades  more  austere 
these  last  two  days,  touched  my  heart. 

"You  won't  think,"  I  pleaded  at  last,  "that  I  don't  infinitely 
prefer  being  here,  with  you?  Isn't  it,  Mrs  Bowater,  that  you 
and  I  haven't  quite  so  many  things  to  pretend  about?  It  is  easy 
thinking  of  others  when  there  are  only  one  or  two  of  them. 
But  whole  drawing-roomsful !  While  here;  well,  there  is  only 
just  you  and  me." 

"Why,  miss,"  she  replied,  "as  for  pretending,  the  world's 
full  of  shadows,  though  substantial  enough  when  it  comes  to  close 
quarters.  If  we  were  all  to  look  at  things  just  bare  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  it  would  have  to  be  the  Garden  of  Eden  over 
again.  It  can't  be  done.  And  it's  just  that  that  what's  called  the 
gentry  know  so  well.     We  must  make  the*  best  use  of  the  mess 


we  can." 


I  was  tired.  The  thin,  sweet  air  of  spring,  wafted  in  at  my 
window  after  the  precocious  heat  of  the  day,  breathed  a  faint, 
reviving  fragrance.  A  curious  excitement  was  in  me.  Yet  her 
words,  or  perhaps  the  tone  of  her  voice,  coloured  my  fancy  with 
vague  forebodings.  I  pushed  aside  my  supper,  slipped  off  my 
fine  visiting  clothes,  and  put  on  my  dressing-gown.  With  lights 
extinguisbed,  I  drew  the  blind,  and  strove  for  a  while  to  puzzle  out 
life's  riddle  for  myself.  Not  for  the  first  or  the  last  time  did  wan- 
dering wits  cheat  me  of  the  goal,  for  presently  in  the  quiet  out  of 
my  thoughts,  stole  into  my  imagination  the  vision  of  that  dreaming 
head  my  eyes  had  sheltered  on. 
176 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Hypnos,"  I  sighed  the  word;  and— another  face.  Fanny' 
seemed  to  melt  into  and  mingle  with  the  visionary  features.  Why, 
wliv,  was  my  desperate  thought,  why  needed  she  allow  the  world 
to  come  to  such  close  quarters?  Why,  with  so  many  plausible  rea- 
sons given  in  her  letter  for  keeping  poor  Mr  Crimble  waiting,  had 
she  withheld  the  one  that  counted  Eor  most?  And  what  was  it.J 
I  knew  in  my  heart  that  that  could  not  be  "making  the  best  use  of 
the  mess."  Surely,  if  one  just  told  only  the  truth,  there  wasn't  any- 
thing else  to  tell.     It  had  taken  me  some  time  to  learn  this  lesson. 

A    low,    rumbling    voice    shook    up    from    the    kitchen.     M 
Bowater  was  talking  to  herself.     Dejection  drew  over  me  again 
at  the  thought  of  the  deceit  1  was  in,  and  I  looked  at  m;  for 

Fanny  as  1  suppose  Abraham  at  the  altar  oi  stones  lool  ed  at  his 
son  Isaac.  Then  suddenly  a  thought  far  more  matter-of-fact 
chilled  through  my  mind.  I  saw  again  Mr  Crimble  huddling 
down  towards  me  in  that  echoing  hall,  heard  my  voice  delivering 
Fanny's  message,  and  realized  that  half  of  what  1  had  said  had 
heen  written  in  mockery.  It  had  been  intended  for  my  eye  only 
— "7.(7  alone  my  prayers."  In  the  solitude  of  the  darkness  the 
words  had  a  sound  far  more  sinister  than  even  Fanny  can  have 
intended. 

Mr  Crimble,  however,  had  accepted  them  apparently  in  good 
faith — to  judge  at  least  from  the  letter  which  reached  me  the  fol- 
lowing morning: — 

"Deaf  Miss  M.,— Thank  you.  1  write  with  a  mind  so  overbur- 
dened that  words  fail  me.  But  I  realize  that  Miss  Bowater  lias  no 
truer  friend  than  yourself,  and  shall  be  frank.  After  that  terrible 
morning  you  might  well  have  refused  to  help  me.  I  cannot  believe 
that  you  will — for  her  sake.  This  long  concealment,  believe  me,  is 
not  of  my  own  seeking.  It  cannot,  it  must  not.  continue,  a  moment 
beyond  tin-  nec<  ity.  For  weeks,  nay,  mouths.  I  have  been  tortured 
with  doubts  and  misgivings.  Her  pride,  her  impenetrable  heedless- 
ness; oh,  indeed,  I  realize  the  difficulties  of  her  situation.  1  dare  not 
Speak  till  she  gives  consent.  Yet  silence  puts  me  in  a  false  position, 
and  tongues,  as  perhaps  even  you  may  lie  aware,  begin  to  war.  Nor 
]  his  my  first  attempt,  and — to  lie  more  frank  than  1  feel  is  discreet 
— there   is  my  mother    (quite   a  rom   hers)    now.   alas,   aged   and 

more  dependent  on  my  affection  and  care  than  ever.  To  make  a 
change  now — the  talk,  the  absence  of  Christian  charity,  my  own 
temperament  and  calling!  I  pray  for  counsel  to  guide  my  stumbling 
bark  on  this  sea  of  darkest  tempest. 

K7 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Can  F.  decide  that  her  affections  are  such  as  could  justify  her  in 
committing  her  future  to  me?  Am  I  justified  in  asking  her?  You, 
too,  must  have  many  anxieties — anxieties  perhaps  unguessed  at  by 
those  of  coarser  fibre.  And  though  I  cannot  venture  to  ask  your 
confidences,  I  do  ask  for  your  feminine  intuition — even  though  this 
may  seem  an  intrusion  after  my  sad  discomfiture  the  other  day.  And 
yet,  I  assure  you,  it  was  not  corporeal  fear — are  not  we  priests  the 
police  of  the  City  Beautiful?  Might  I  not  have  succeeded  merely  in 
making  us  both  ridiculous?  But  that  is  past,  and  the  dead  past 
must  bury  its  dead:  there  is  no  gentler  sexton. 

"Need  I  say  that  this  letter  is  not  the  fruit  of  any  mere  impulse. 
The  thought,  the  very  image  of  her  never  leaves  my  consciousness 
night  or  day;  and  I  get  no  rest.  I  am  almost  afraid  at  the  power 
she  has  of  imprinting  herself  on  the  mind.  I  implore  you  to  be 
discreet,  without  needless  deception.  I  will  wait  patiently.  My  last 
desire  is  to  hasten  an  answer — unless,  dear  Miss  M.,  one  in  the 
affirmative.  And  would  it  be  possible — indeed  the  chief  purpose  of 
this  letter  was  to  make  this  small  request — would  it  be  possible  to 
give  me  one  hour — no  tea — this  afternoon?  There  was  a  phrase 
in  your  whispered  message — probably  because  of  the  peculiar  acoustic 
properties  of  Brunswick  House — that  was  but  half-caught.  We 
must  not  risk  the  faintest  shadow  of  misunderstanding. 

"Believe  me,  yours  most  gratefully,  though  'perplexed  in  the  ex- 
treme,' 

"Harold  Crimble. 

"PS.1— I   feel  at   times  that   it   is  incumbent  on  one  to  burn   one's 
boats;  even  though  out  of  sight  the  further  shore. 
"And  the  letter :  would  it  be  even  possible  to  share  a  glance  at  that?" 

My  old  habit  of  hunting  in  the  crannies  of  what  I  read  had  ample 
opportunity  here.  Two  things  stood  out  in  my  mind :  a  kind  of 
astonishment  at  Mr  Crimble's  "stumbling  bark"  which  he  was  ask- 
ing me  to  help  to  steer,  and  inexpressible  relief  that  Fanny's  letter 
was  buried  beyond  hope  of  recovery  before  he  could  call  that  after- 
noon. The  more  I  pitied  and  understood  his  state  of  mind,  the 
more  helpless  and  anxious  I  felt.  Then,  in  my  foolish  fashion,  I 
began  again  picturing  in  fancy  the  ceremony  that  would  bring  Mr 
Crimble  and  my  landlady  into  so  close  a  relationship.  Why  did  he 
fear  the  wagging  of  tongues  so  much?  I  didn't.  Would  M: 
Bullace  be  a  bridesmaid?  Would  1?  !  searched  in  my  drawer 
and  read  over  the  "Form  of  Solemnization  of  Matrimony."  T 
came  to  "the  dreadful  day  of  judgment,"  and  to  "serve"  and 
178 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"obey,"  and  shivered.  I  was  not  sure  that  I  cared  for  the  way 
human  beings  had  managed  these  things.  But  at  least,  brides- 
maids said  nothing,  and  if  I 

While  I  was  thus  engaged  Mrs  Bowater  entered  the  room.  I 
smuggled  my  prayer-book  aside  and  gave  her  Fanny's  letter.  She- 
was  always  a  woman  of  few  words.  She  folded  it  reflectively ; 
took  off  her  spectacles,  replaced  them  in  their  leather  case,  and  that 
in  her  pocket. 

"  'Soap,  handkerchiefs,  stockings,'  "  she  mused,  "though  why 
in  the  world  she  didn't  say  'silk'  is  merely  Fanny's  way.  And 
I  am  sure,  miss,"  she  added,  "she  must  have  had  one  peculiar  mo- 
ment when  the  thought  occurred  to  her  of  the  bolt." 

"But,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  cried  in  snake-like  accents,  "  you  said 
you  were  'soliciting  no  divulgements.'  " 

Mrs   Bowater's   mouth   opened   in   silent   laughter.     "Between 

you "   she  began,   and   broke   off.     "Gracious   goodness,   but 

here's  that  young  man,  Mr  Crimble,  calling  again." 

Mr  Crimble  drank  tea  with  me,  though  he  ate  nothing.  And 
now,  his  darkest  tempest  being  long  since  stilled,  I  completely 
absolve  myself  for  amending  the  message  which  Lady  Pollacke's 
tesselated  hall  had  mercifully  left  obscure.  He  sat  there,  almost 
like  a  goldfish — though  black  in  effect  beyond  description — gap- 
ing for  the  crumb  that  never  comes.  "She  bade  me,"  I  muttered 
my  falsehood,  "she  bade  me  say  secretly  that  she  has  had  your 
letter,  that  she  is  giving  it  her  earnest  attention,  her  earnest  at- 
tention, alone,  and  in  her  prayers." 

The  dark  liquid  pupils  appeared  for  one  sheer  instant  to  rotate, 
then  he  turned  away,  and,  as  if  quite  helplessly,  stifled  an  un- 
sheltered yawn. 

"  'Alone,'  "  he  cried  desperately.  "I  see  myself,  I  see  myself  in 
her  young  imagination !" 

I  think  he  guessed  that  my  words  were  false,  that  his  ear  had 
not  been  as  treacherous  as  all  that.  Whether  or  not,  no  human 
utterance  have  I  ever  heard  so  humble,  tragic,  final.  It  knelled  in 
my  ear  like  the  surrender  of  all  hope.  And  yet  it  brought  me, 
personally,  some  enlightenment.  It  was  with  Mr  (Trimble's  eyes 
that  I  now  scanned  not  only  his  phantom  presence  in  Fanny' 
imagination,  but  my  own,  standing  beside  him — a  "knick-knack" 
figure  of  fun,  pygmied  beneath  the  flappets  of  his  clerical  coat,  like 

179 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

a  sun-beetle  by  a  rook.  The  spectacle  strengthened  me  without 
much  affecting  Fanny.  She  was  no  longer  the  absolute  sultana  of 
my  being.     I  could  think  now,  as  well  as  adore. 

How  strange  it  is  that  when  our  minds  are  needled  to  a  sharp 
focus  mere  "things"  swarm  so  close.  There  was  not  a  single  or- 
nament or  book  or  fading  photograph  in  Mrs  Bowater's  parlour 
that  in  this  queer  privacy  did  not  mutely  seem  to  cry,  "Yes,  here 
am  I.     This  is  how  things  go."' 

I  leant  forward  and  looked  at  him.  "We  mustn't  care  what  she 
sees,  what  she  thinks,  if  only  we  can  go  on  loving  her." 

'  'Can,  can'  ?"  echoed  Mr  Crimble,  "I  have  prayed  on  my  knees 
not  to." 

This  was  a  sharp  ray  on  my  thoughts  of  love.  "But  why?"  I 
said.  "Even  when  I  was  a  child,  I  knew  by  my  mother's  face 
that  I  must  go  on,  and  should  go  on,  loving  her,  Mr  Crimble, 
whether  she  loved  me  or  not.  One  can't  make  a  bad  mistake  in 
giving,  can  one?  And  yet — well,  you  must  remember  that  I  can- 
not but  have  been  a — a  disappointment;  that  as  long  as  I  live  1 
can't  expect  any  great  affection,  any  disproportionate  one,  I  mean." 

"But,  but,"  he  stumbled  on,  "a  daughter's  affection — it's  dif- 
ferent. I  musn't  brood  on  my  trouble.  It  unhinges  me.  Why, 
the  clock  stops.     But  nevertheless  may  God  bless  you  for  that." 

"But  surely,"  I  persisted,  smiling  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  "Nil 
desperandum,  Mr  Crimble.  And  you  know  what  they  say  about 
fish  in  the  sea." 

His  eye  rolled  round  on  me  as  if  a  serpent  had  spoken.  "I  am 
sorry,  I  am  sorry,"  he  repeated  rapidly,  in  the  same  low,  unem- 
phatic  undertone  as  if  to  himself.  "I  must  just  wait.  You  have 
never  seen  a  sheep — a  bullock,  shall  we  call  him  ? — being  driven  to 
the  slaughter-house.  On,  on — from  despair  to  despair.  That's 
my  position."     His  face  was  emptied  of  expression,  his  eyes  fixed. 

These  words,  his  air,  his  look,  this  awful  private  thing — 
I  can't  say — it  shocked  and  frightened  me  beyond  words.  But 
I  answered  him  steadily  none  the  less.  "Listen,  Mr  Crimble," 
I  said,  "look  at  me,  here,  what  I  am.  I  have  had  my  desperate 
moments  too — more  alone  in  the  world  than  you  can  ever  be! 
And  I  swear  before  God  that  I  will  never,  never  be  not  myself." 
I  wonder  what  the  listener  thought  of  this  little  challenge,  not 
perhaps  what  Mr  Crimble  did. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  with  sudden  calm,  "that's  the  courage 
1 80 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  the  martyr^,  and  not  all  of  them  perhaps  have  been  Christians, 
if  history  is  to  he  credited.  Yes,  and  in  sober  truth,  I  assure 
yon,  you,  that  I  would  go  to  the  stake  for — for  Miss  Bowater." 

He  rose,  and  in  that  instant  of  dignity  1  foresaw  what  was 
never  to  be — lawn  sleeves  encasing  those  Loose,  black  arm-. 
He  had  somehow  wafted  me  hack  to  my  Confirmation. 

"And  the  letter?  I  have  no  wish  to  intrude.  But  her  actual 
words.     I  mayn't  see  tkatf 

"You  will  please  forgive  me,"  I  entreated  helplessly,  "it  is 
buried  ;  because,   you  see.    Fanny — you  see,   Mrs    Bowater " 

"Ah,"  he  said.  "It  is  this  deception  which  dismays,  scandalizes 
me  most.     But  you  will  keep  me  informed?" 

He  seized  his  soft  round  hat,  and  it  was  on  this  cold  word 
we  parted.  I  stood  by  the  window,  with  hand  stretched  out  to 
summon  him  hack.  But  no  word  of  comfort  or  hope  came  to 
my  aid,  and  I  watched  him  out  of  sight. 


181 


Chapter  Twenty-One 


T 


HAT  night  I  wrote  to  Fanny,  copying  out  my  letter  from 
the  scrawling  draft  from  which  I  am  copying  it  now : — 


"Dear  Fanny, — I  have  given  Mr  Crimble  your  message;  first, 
exactly  in  your  own  words,  though  he  did  not  quite  hear  them,  and 
then,  leaving  out  a  little.  You  may  be  angry  at  what  I  am  going 
to  say — but  I  am  quite  sure  you  ought  to  answer  him  at  once.  Fanny, 
he's  dreadfully  fond  of  you.  I  never  even  dreamed  people  were  like 
that — in  such  torture  for  what  can't  be,  unless  you  mean  you  do  care, 
but  are  too  proud  to  tell  him  so.  If  he  knows  you  have  no  heart  for 
him,  he  may  soon  be  better.  This  sounds  hateful.  But  I  am  not 
such  a  pin  in  a  pincushion  as  not  to  know  that  even  the  greatest 
sorrows  and  disappointments  wear  out.  Why,  isn't  that  beech-tree 
we  sat  under  a  kind  of  cannibal  of  its  own  dead  leaves? 

"Your  private  letter  is  quite  safe;  though  I  prefer  not  to  burn  it 
— indeed,  cannot  burn  it.  You  know  how  I  have  longed  for  it.  But 
please,  if  possible,  don't  send  me  two  in  future.  It  doesn't  seem  fair; 
and  your  mother  knew  already  about  our  star-gazing.  You  see, 
how  else  could  the  door  have  been  bolted  ! !  But  it's  best  to  have 
been  found  out — next,  I  mean,  to  telling  oneself. 

"What  day  are  you  coming  home?  I  look  at  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
lighthouse — even  though  it  is  out  of  sight.  Shall  we  go  on  with 
Wuthering  Heights  when  you  do  come?  I  saw  the  'dazzling'  moon 
— but  there,  Fanny,  what  I  want  most  to  beg  of  you  is  to  write  to 
Mr.  Crimble — all  that  you  feel,  even  if  not  all  that  you  think.  No, 
perhaps  I  mean  the  reverse.  He  must  have  been  wondering  about 
you  long  before  I  began  to.  And  there  it  was,  all  sunken  in;  no 
one  could  have  guessed  his  longing  by  looking  at  him.  I  am  afraid 
it  must  affect  his  health. 

"And  now  good-bye.  I  have  made  a  vow  to  myself  not  to  think 
into  tilings  too  much.  Your  affectionate  friend  (as  much  of  her 
as  there  is)  — 

"MlDGETINA. 

"PS. — Please  tell  me  the  day  you  are  coming;  and  that  shall  be 
my  birthday." 
182 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Fanny  was  prompt  in  reply  : — 

"Dear  Midoetina, — It's  a  strange  fact,  but  while,  to  judge  from 
your  letter,  you  seem  to  be  growing  smaller,  I  (in  spite  of  Miss 
Stebbings's  water  porridge)  am  growing  fatter.  Now,  which  is 
the  tragedy?  I  may  come  home  on  the  30th.  If  so,  kill  the  fa' 
calf;  I  will  supply  the  birthday-cake.  How  foolish  of  you  to  keep 
letters.  1  never  do,  lest  I  should  remember  the  answers.  Any- 
how, I  shall  not  write  again.  But  if,  by  any  chance,  Mr  Crimble 
should  make  another  call,  will  you  explain  that  my  chief  motive  in 
not  singing  at  the  concert  was  because  I  should  have  been  a  second 
mezzo-soprano.  One  of  two  in  one  concert  must  be  superflui 
Perhaps  I  did  not  explain  this  clearly;  nor  did  I  say  how  charming 
I  thought  my  double  was. 

"I  am  tired — of  overwork.  I  have  finished  Withering  Heights. 
It  is  a  mad.  untrue  book.  The  world  is  not  like  Emily  Bronte's  con- 
ception of  it.  It  is  neither  dream  nor  nightmare,  Midgetina,  but 
wide,  wide  awake.  And  I  am  convinced  that  the  poets  are  only 
cherubs  with  sugar-sticks  to  their  little  rosebud  mouths.  I  abom- 
inate whitewash.  As  for  'putting  people  out  of  their  misery,'  and 
cannibal  beech-trees:  no,  fretful  midge!  If  you  could  sec  me  sitting 
here  looking  down  on  rows  and  rows  of  vacant  and  hostile  faces 
— though  one  or  two  are  infatuated  enough — you  would  realize 
that  such  a  practice  would  lead  me  into  miscellaneous  infanticide. 

"Personally,  I  never  did  think  into  things  too  painfully ;  though 
as  regards  'telling,'  the  reverse  is  certainly  the  wiser  course.  So 
you  will  forgive  so  short,  and  perhaps  none  too  sweet,  a  letter  from 
your  affec. — F." 

Enclosed  with  this  was  a  narrow  slip  of  paper : — 

"I  shall  not  write  to  you  know  who.  Think,  if  you  like,  hut 
don't  feel  like  a  microscope.  He  is  only  in  love.  And  however 
punctilious  your  own  practice  may  he,  pray.  Miss  M.,  do  not  preach 
— at  any  rate  to  your  affecte.  hut  unregeneratc   friend. — F." 

I  believe  I  drafted  and  destroyed  three  answers  to  this 
letter.  It  broke  down  my  defences  far  more  easily  than  had 
the  errand  boys.  It  shamed  me  for  a  prig,  a  false  friend,  a 
sentimentalist.  And  the  "fretful  midge"  rankled  like  salt  in 
a  wounded  heart.  Yet  Fanny  was  faithless  even  to  her  po 
script.  A  sheaf  of  narcissuses  hooded  in  blue  tissue  paper 
was  left  at  the  house  a  day  or  two  afterwards.     It  was  accom- 

183 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

panied  by  Mr  Crimble's  card  in  a  little  envelope  tied  in  with  the 
stalks : — 

"I  am  given   a  ray  of  hope." 

Mrs  Bowater  had  laid  this  offering  on  my  table  with  a  peculiar 
grimace,  whether  scornful  or  humorous,  it  was  impossible  to 
detect.  "From  Mr  Crimble,  miss.  Why,  one  might  think  he 
had  two  irons  in  the  fire !" 

I  sat  gazing  at  this  thank-offering  long  after  she  had  gone 
— the  waxy  wings,  the  crimson-rimmed  corona,  the  pale-green 
cluster  of  pistil  and  stamen.  .The  heavy  perfume  stole  over 
my  senses,  bringing  only  weariness  and  self -distaste  to  my  mind. 
Fly  that  I  was,  caught  in  a  web — once  more  I  began  a  letter 
to  Fanny,  imploring  her  to  write  to  her  mother,  to  tell  her 
everything.  But  that  letter,  too,  was  torn  up  into  tiny  pieces 
and  burnt  in  the  fire. 

Next  morning,  heavily  laden  with  my  parasol,  a  biscuit 
or  two  in  my  bag,  my  Sense  and  Sensibility  and  a  rug  in  my 
arms,  I  set  off  very  early  for  Wanderslore,  having  arranged 
with  Mrs  Bowater  over  night  that  she  should  meet  me  under 
my  beech  at  a  quarter  to  one. 

Under  the  flat,  bud-pointed  branches,  I  pressed  on  between 
clusters  of  primrose,  celandine,  and  wild  wood  anemone,  breathing 
in  the  earthy  freshness  of  grass  and  moss.  And  presently  I 
came  out  between  the  stones  and  jutting  roots  in  sight  of  the 
vacant  windows.  I  stood  for  a  moment  confronting  their  black 
regard,  then  descended  the  knoll  and  was  soon  making  my- 
self comfortable  beside  the  garden  house.  But  first  I  managed 
to  clamber  up  on  a  fragment  of  the  fallen  masonry  and  peep 
in  at  its  low  windows.  A  few  dead,  last-year's  flies  lay  dry 
on  their  backs;  dusty,  derelict  spider-webs;  a  litter  of  straw, 
and  a  few  potsherds — the  place  was  empty.  But  it  was  mine, 
and  the  very  remembrance  of  which  it  whispered  to  me — the 
picture  of  my  poor  father's  bedroom  that  night  of  the  storm — 
only  increased  my  sense  of  possession. 

What  was  wrong  with  me  just  then,  what  I  had  sallied 
out  in  hope  to  be  delivered  from,  was  the  unhappy  conviction 
that  my  life  was  worthless,  and  I  of  no  use  in  the  world.  T 
had  taught  myself  to  make  knots  in  strings,  but  actual  experience 
seemed  to  have  proved  that  most  human  tumblings  resulted  only 
184 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

in  "grannies"  and  not  in  the  true  lover's  variety.  They  secure  1 
nothing,  only  tangled  and  jammed.  1  was  young  then,  and 
yet]   as    heavily    burdened   with    other    peopled    responsibilil 

as  was  poor  Christian  with  the  bundle  of  his  sins.  But  my 
bundle,  too,  in  that  lovely,  desolate  loneliness  at  last  fell  off 
my  shoulders. 

Could  I  not  still  he  loyal  in  heart  and  mind  to  Fanny,  even 
though  now  1  knew  how  little  she  cared  whether  1  was  loyal  or 
not?  I  even  climbed  up  behind  Mr  Crimble's  thick  spectacles 
and  looked  down  again  at  myself  from  that  point  of  vantage. 
Whether  or  not  I  was  his  affair,  1  could  try  to  make  him  mine 
— perhaps  even  persuade  Fanny  to  love  him. 

Oh,  dear;  was  not  every  singing  bird  in  that  wilderness, 
every  unfolding  flower  and  sunlit  March  leaf  welcoming  the 
spirit  within  me  to  their  quiet  habitation?  As  if  in  response 
to  this  naive  thought,  welled  up  in  my  memory  the  two  last 
stanzas  of  my  Tom  o'  Bedlam,  which,  either  for  pride  or  shame, 
had  stuck  in  my  throat  on  the  skin  mat  in  Lady  Pollacke's 
sky-lit  drawing-room : — 

"With  a  heart  of  furious  fancies, 
Whereof  1  am  commander: 
With  a  burning  spear, 
And  a  horse  of  air, 
To  the  wilderness  I   wander. 

With  a  knight  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
1   summoned  am  to   tourney : 
Ten  leagues  beyond 
The  wide  world's  end ; 
Methinks  it   is  no  journey." 

Parasol  for  spear,  the  youngest  Miss  Shanks's  pony  for  horse 
of  air,  there  was  I  (even  though  common-sized  boots  might 
reckon  it  a  mere  mile  or  so),  ten  leagues  at  least  beyond — Mrs 
1 '.(.water's.  Nor,  like  her  husband,  had  1  broken  my  leg;  nor 
had  Fanny  broken  my  heart.  All  would  come  right  again. 
Why,  what  a  waste  of  Fanny  it  wotdd  be  to  make  her  Mrs 
Crimble.  My  bishop,  according  to  Miss  Fenne,  had  had  c|iiite 
a  homely  helpmate,  "little  short  o\  a  frump,  Caroline,  as  I 
remember  her  thirty  years  ago."     Perhaps  if   I  left  off  my  fine 

185 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

colours  and  bought  a  nice  brown  stuff  dress  and  a  bonnet, 
might  not  Mr  Crimble  change  his  mind  .  .  .  ?  I  have  noticed 
that  as  soon  as  I  begin  to  laugh  at  myself,  the  whole  world 
seems  to  smile  in  return. 

Absurd,  contrary,  volatile  creature  that  I  was — a  kind  of 
thankfulness  spread  over  my  mind.  I  turned  on  to  my  knees 
where  I  sat  and  repeated  the  prayers  which  in  my  haste  to  be 
off  I  had  neglected  before  coming  out.  And  thus  kneeling,  I 
opened  my  eyes  on  the  garden  again,  bathed  delicately  in  the 
eastern  sunshine.  There  was  my  old  friend,  Mr  Clodd's  Nature, 
pranking  herself  under  the  nimble  fingers  of  spring;  and  in 
her  sight  as  well  as  in  the  sight  of  my  godmother's  God,  and  Mr 
Crimble's  Almighty,  and,  possibly,  of  Dr  Phelps's  Norm,  were 
not,  in  deed  and  in  truth,  all  men  equal?  How  mysterious  and 
how  entrancing!  If  "sight,"  then  eyes:  but  whose?  where? 
I  gazed  round  me  dazzledly,  and  if  wings  had  been  mine,  would 
have  darted  through  the  thin,  blue-green  veil  and  been  out 
into  the  morning. 

Poor  she-knight !  romantical  Miss  Midge !  she  had  no  desire 
to  hunt  Big  Game,  or  turn  steeplejack;  her  fancies  were  not 
dangerously  "furious";  but,  as  she  knelt  there,  environed  about 
by  that  untended  garden,  and  not  so  ridiculously  pygmy 
either,  even  in  the  ladder  of  the  world's  proportion — saw-edged 
blade  of  grass,  gold-cupped  moss,  starry  stonecrop,  green  musky 
moschatel,  close-packed  pebble,  wax-winged  fly — well,  I  know 
not  how  to  complete  the  sentence  except  by  remarking  that  I 
am  exceedingly  glad  I  began  to  write  my  Life. 

I  realized  too  that  it  is  less  flattering  to  compare  oneself  with 
the  very  little  things  of  the  world  than  with  the  great.  Given 
time,  I  might  scale  an  Alp;  I  could  only  kill  an  ant.  Besides, 
I  am  beginning  to  think  that  one  of  the  pleasantest  ways  of 
living  is  in  one's  memory.  How  much  less  afflicting  at  times 
would  my  present  have  been  if  I  had  had  the  foresight  to  remind 
myself  how  beguiling  it  would  appear  as  the  past.  Even  my 
old  sharpest  sorrows  have  now  hushed  themselves  to  sleep,  and 
those  for  whom  I  have  sorrowed  are  as  quiet. 

Having   come   to   a   pause    in   my    reflections,    I    opened   my 

Sense  and  Sensibility  at  Chapter  XXXV.     Yet  attend  to  Miss 

Austen  I  could  not.     She  is  one  of  those  compact  and  cautious 

writers  that  will  not  feed  a  wandering  mind;  and  at  last,  after 

1 86 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

three  times  re-reading  the  same  paragraph,  an  uneasy  conviction 
began  to  steal  over  me.  There  was  no  doubt  now  in  my  mind. 
I  was  being  watched.  Softly,  stealthily,  I  raised  my  eyes  from 
my  book  and  with  not  the  least  motion  of  head  or  body,  glanced 
around  me.  Whereupon,  as  if  it  had  been  playing  sentinel  out 
of  the  thicket  near  at  hand,  a  blackbird  suddenly  jangled  its 
challenge,  and  with  warning  cries  fled  away  on  its  wings  towards 
the  house. 


187 


Chapter   Twenty-Two 

THEN  instantly  I  discovered  the  cause  of  the  bird's  alarm. 
At  first  I  fancied  that  this  strange  figure  was  at  some  little 
distance.  Then  I  realized  that  his  stature  had  misled  me, 
and  that  he  could  not  be  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  yards 
away.  Standing  there,  with  fixed,  white  face  and  black  hair, 
under  a  flowering  blackthorn,  he  remained  as  motionless  and 
as  intent  as  I.  He  was  not  more  than  a  few  inches,  apparently, 
superior  in  height  to  myself. 

"So,"  I  seemed  to  whisper,  as  gaze  met  gaze,  "there !"  hardly 
certain  the  while  if  he  was  real  or  an  illusion.  Indeed,  if,  even 
then  before  my  eyes,  he  had  faded  out  into  the  tangle  of  thorn, 
twig,  and  thin-spun  blossom  above  and  around  him,  it  would 
not  have  greatly  astonished,  though  it  would  have  deeply  dis- 
appointed me.  With  a  peculiar,  trembling  curiosity,  I  held  him 
with  my  gaze.     If  he  would  not  disclose  himself,  then  must  I. 

Slowly  and  deliberately  my  cold  hand  crept  out  and  grasped 
my  parasol.  Without  for  a  moment  removing  my  eyes  from 
this  interloper's  face,  I  pushed  its  ribbed  silk  tent  taut  into  the 
air.     Click !  went  the  tiny  spring;  and  at  that  he  stirred. 

"Who  are  you :  watching  me  ?"  I  cried  in  a  low,  steady  voice 
across  the  space  that  divided  us.  His  head  stooped  a  little.  I 
fancied — and  feared — that  he  was  about  to  withdraw.  But  after 
a  pause  he  drew  himself  up  and  came  nearer,  casting,  as  he 
approached,  his  crooked  shadow  away  from  the  sun  on  the  close- 
cropped  turf  beside  him. 

To  this  day  I  sometimes  strive  in  vain  to  see,  quite  clearly 
in  my  mind,  that  face,  as  it  appeared  at  that  first  meeting.  A 
different  memory  of  it  obtrudes  itself ;  yet  how  many,  many 
times  have  I  searched  his  features  for  news  of  himself,  and  looked 
passingly — and  once  with  final  intensity — into  those  living  eyes. 
Hut  I  recollect  that  his  clothes  looked  slightly  out  of  keeping 
and  grotesque  amid  the  green  things  of  early  spring.  It  seemed 
he  had  wasted  in  them.  So,  too,  the  cheek  had  wasted  over 
1 88 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

its  bone,  and  seemed  parched;  the  thin  lips,  the  car-,  slightly 
pointed.  And  then  broke  out  his  low,  hollow  voice.  Scarcely 
rising  or  falling,  the  mere  sound  of  it  seemed  to  be  as  full  of  mean- 
ing as  the  words. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  at  all  I  po  1.  as  if  piece  by  piece — 

as  if  he  had  been  a  long  time  searching  for  them  all.  Yet  he 
now  seemed  to  avoid  my  eyes,  though  they  were  serenely 
awaiting  his.  Indeed  from  this  moment  almost  to  the  last, 
1  was  never  at  a  loss  or  distressed  in  his  company.  He  never 
called  me  out  of  myself  beyond  an  easy  and  happy  return, 
though  he  was  to  creep  into  my  imagination  as  easily  as  a 
single  bee  creeps  into  the  thousand-celled  darkness  of  its  hive. 

Whenever  I  parted  from  him,  his  remembrance  was  like  that 
of  one  of  those  strange  figures  which  thrust  themselves  as  if 
out  of  the  sleep-world  into  the  mind's  wakefulnc^;  vividly, 
darkly,  impress  themselves  upon  consciousness,  and  then  are 
gone.  So  I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  ever  really  knew  him,  if  he 
was  ever  perfectly  real  to  me;  like  Fanny,  for  instance.  Yet 
he  made  no  pretence  to  be  mysterious,  and  we  were  soon  talking 
together  almost  as  naturally  as  if  we  were  playmates  of  child- 
hood who  had  met  again  after  a  long  separation. 

He  confessed  that,  quite  unknown  to  me,  he  had  watched 
me  come  and  go  in  the  cold  mornings  of  winter,  when  frost 
had  soon  driven  me  home  again  out  of  the  bare,  frozen  woods. 
He  had  even  been  present,  I  think,  when  Fanny  and  I  had 
shared — or  divided — the  stars  between  us.  A  faint  distaste  at 
any  rate  showed  itself  on  his  face  when  he  admitted  that  he  hid 
seen  me  not  alone.  I  was  unaccustomed  to  that  kind  of  interest, 
and  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  pleased  or  angry. 

"Rut  you  know  I  come  here  to  be  alone,"  I  said  as  courteously 
as  possible. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  face  turned  away.  "That's  how 
I  saw  you.'' 

Without  my  being  aware  of  it,  too,  he  played  a  kind  of  chess 
with  me,  seizing  each  answer  in  turn  for  hook  on  which  to 
hang  another  question.  What  had  I  to  conceal?  Of  my  short 
history,  though  not  of  myself,  1  told  him  freely;  vet  asl 
him  few  questions  in  return.  Nor  at  that  time  did  I  even  con- 
sider how  strange  a  chance  had  brought  two  such  human  bein 
as  he  and  I  to  this  place  of  meeting.     Yet,  after  all,  whales  are 

189 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

but  little  creatures  by  comparison  with  the  ocean  in  which  they 
roam,  and  glow-worm  will  keep  tryst  with  glow-worm  in  forests 
black  as  night. 

Through  all  he  said  was  woven  a  thread  of  secrecy.  So  low 
and  monotonous  was  his  voice  (not  lifting  itself  much,  but 
only  increasing  in  resonance  when  any  thought  angered  or 
darkened  his  mind)  ;  so  few  were  his  gestures  that  he  might 
have  been  talking  in  his  sleep.  Not  once  that  long  morning 
did  he  laugh,  not  even  when  I  mischievously  proffered  him  my 
parasol  (as  he  sat  a  few  paces  away)  to  screen  him  from  the 
March  sun!  Solemnly  he  shared  Mrs  Bowater's  biscuits  with 
me,  scattering  the  crumbs  to  a  robin  that  hopped  up  between 
us,  as  if  he  had  been  invited  to  our  breakfast. 

His  head  hung  so  low  between  his  heavy  shoulders  that 
it  reminded  me  of  a  flower  stooping  for  want  of  water.  Not 
that  there  was  anything  limp  or  fragile  or  gentle  in  his  looks. 
He  was,  far  rather,  clumsy  and  ugly  in  appearance,  yet  with 
a  grace  in  his  look  like  that  of  an  old,  haggled  thorn-tree  when 
the  wind  moves  its  branches.  And  anyhow,  he  was  come  to 
be  my  friend — out  of  the  unknown.  And  when  I  looked  around 
at  the  serene  wild  loveliness  of  the  garden,  it  seemed  to  be  no 
less  happy  a  place  because  it  was  no  longer  quite  a  solitude. 

"You  read,"  he  said,  glancing  reflectively,  but  none  too  compli- 
mentarily,  at  my  book. 

"It  isn't  wise  to  think  too  much."  I  replied  solemnly,  shutting 
Miss  Austen  up.  "Besides,  as  I  haven't  the  opportunity  of 
seeing  many  people  in  the  flesh,  you  know,  the  next  best  thing 
is  to  meet  them  in  books — specially  in  this  kind  of  book.  If 
only  I  were  Jane  Austen;  my  gracious,  I  would  enjoy  myself! 
Her  people  are  just  the  same  as  people  are  now — inside.  I 
doubt  if  leopards  really  want  to  change  their  spots.  But  of 
course" — I  added,-  since  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  express 
any  opinion — "I  read  other  kinds  of  books  as  well.  That's 
the  best  of  being  a  dunce — there's  so  much  to  learn!  Just 
lately  I  have  been  learning  to  tie  knots." 

I  laughed,  and  discovered  that  I  was  blushing. 

He  raised  his  eyes  slowly  to  my  face,  then  looked  so  long 
and  earnestly  at  my  hands,  that  I  was  forced  to  hide  them  away 
under  my  bag.  Long  before  I  had  noticed  that  his  own  hands 
190 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

were  rather  large  and  powerful  for  his  size.  Fanny's  face  I 
had  loved  to  watch  for  its  fairness  and  beauty — it  would  have 
been  as  lovely  if  she  had  nol  been  within.  To  watch  Mrs 
Bowater's  was  like  spelling  out  hits  of  a  peculiar  language.  I 
often  found  out  what  she  was  feeling  or  thinking  hy  imitating 
her  expression,  and  then  translating  it,  after  she  was  gone. 
This  young  man's  kept  me  engrossed  because  pf  the  self  that 
brooded  in  it — its  dark  melancholy,  too;  and  because  even 
then,  perhaps,  I  may  have  remotely  and  vaguely  realized  that 
flesh  and  spirit  could  not  he  long  of  one  company.  He  himself 
was,  as  it  were,  a  foreigner  to  me,  and  I  felt  I  must  make  the 
best  and  most  of  him  before  he  went  off  again. 

Perhaps  memory  reads  into  this  experience  more  than  in 
those  green  salad  days  I  actually  found  there.  But  of  this 
at  least  I  am  certain — that  the  morning  sped  on  unheeded  in 
his  company,  and  I  was  even  unconscious  of  how  cold  I  was 
until  he  suddenly  glanced  anxiously  into  my  face  and  told  me 
so.  So  now  we  wandered  off  together  towards  the  great  house 
— which  hitherto  1  had  left  unapproached.  We  climbed  the 
green-stained  scaling  steps  from  terrace  to  terrace,  tufted  with 
wallflower  and  snapdragon  amongst  the  weeds,  cushioned  with 
bright  moss,  fretted  with  lichen.  Standing  there,  side  by  side 
with  him,  looking  up — our  two  figures  alone,  on  the  wide  flower- 
less  weed-grown  terrace — hale,  sour  weeds  some  of  them,  shoulder- 
high — I  scrutinized  the  dark,  shut  windows. 

What  was  the  secret  that  had  kept  it  so  long  vacant,  I 
inquired.  Mrs  Bowater  had  never  given  me  any  coherent  an- 
swer to  this  question.  My  words  dropped  into  the  silence, 
like  a  pebble  into  a  vast,  black  pool  of  water. 

"There  was  a  tale  about,''  he  replied  indifferently,  and  yet, 
as  I  fancied,  not  so  indifferently  as  he  intended,  "that  many 
years  ago  a  woman" — he  pronounced  the  word  almost  as  if  it 
had  reference  to  a  different  species  from  ourselves — "that  a 
woman  had  hanged  herself  in  one  of  its  upper  rooms." 

"Hanged  herself!"  It  was  the  kind  of  fable  Mrs  Ballard 
used  to  share  with  Adam  Waggett's  mother  over  their  tea  and 
shrimps.  Frowning  in  horror  and  curiosity,  I  scanned  his  face. 
Was  this  the  water  I  could  dip  for  in  his  well?  Alas,  how 
familiar  I  was  to  become  with  the  bucket. 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

He  made  a  movement  with  his  hands;  at  which  I  saw  the 
poor  creature  up  there  in  the  darkness,  suspended  lifeless,  poor, 
poor  human,  with  head  awry. 

"Why?"  I  asked  him,  pondering  childishly  over  this  picture. 

"It  was  mere  gossip,"  he  replied,  "and  true  or  not,  such  as 
'they'  make  up  to  explain  their  own  silly  superstitions.  Just 
thinking  long  enough  and  hard  enough  would  soon  invite  an 
evil  spirit  into  any  old  empty  house.  Human  beings  are  no 
better  than  sheep,  though  they  don't  always  see  the  dogs  and 
shepherds  that  drive  them." 

"And  does  it,"  I  faltered,  glancing  covertly  up  the  walls, 
and  conscious  of  a  novel  vein  of  interest  in  this  strangely 
inexhaustible  world,  "does  the  evil  spirit  ever  look  out  of  the 
windows  ?" 

He  turned  his  face  to  me,  smiling;  and  inquired  if  I  had  ever 
heard  the  phrase,  "the  eyelids  of  the  dawn."  "There's  Night, 
too,"  he  said. 

"But  whose  spirit?  Whose?"  I  persisted.  "When  I  am  here 
alone  in  the  garden,  why,  it  is  just  peace.  How  could  that  be, 
if  an  evil  spirit  haunted  here?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  a  selfish,  solitary  peace.  Dead  birds  don't 
sing.  Don't  come  when  you  can't  get  back;  or  the  clouds  are 
down." 

"You  are  trying  to  frighten  me,"  I  said,  in  a  louder  voice. 
"And  I  have  been  too  much  alone  for  that.  Of  course  things 
must  look  after  themselves.  Don't  we?  And  you  said  an  evil 
spirit.     What  is  the  good  of  dreaming  when  you  are  wide  awake  ?" 

"Then,"  said  he,  almost  coldly,  "do  you  deny  that  Man  is 
an  evil  spirit?     He  distorts  and  destroys." 

But  with  that  the  words  of  my  mother  came  back  to  me  out 
of  a  far-away  morning:  "He  made  us  of  His  Power  and  Love." 
Yet  I  could  not  answer  him,  could  only  wait,  as  if  expectant 
that  by  mere  silence  I  should  be  able  to  share  the  thoughts  he 
was  thinking.  And,  all  the  while,  my  eyes  were  brooding  in 
some  dark  chamber  of  my  mind  on  Fanny,  and  not,  as  they 
well  might  have,  on  the  dark  bark  of  Mr  Crimble  tossing  in 
jeopardy  beneath  its  fleeting  ray  of  hope. 

Truly  this  stranger  was  making  life  very  interesting,  even 
if  he  was  only  prodding  over  its  dead  moles.  And  truly  I  was 
an  incorrigibly  romantic  young  lady ;  for  when,  with  a  glance 
192 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

at   my  grandfather's  watch,   I    discovered  that  it   was  long  •  a  t 

noon,  and  told  him  1  must  be  gone;  without  a  single  moment's 
hesitation,  I  promised  to  come  again  to  unci  him  on  the  very 
first  line  morning  that  showed.  So  strong  within  me  was  the 
desire  to  do  so,  that  a  profound  dismay  chilled  my  mind  when, 
on  turning  about  at  the  end  of  the  terrace — for  he  had  shown 
no  inclination  to  accompany  me  -  I  found  that  he  was  already 
out  of  sight.  I  formally  waved  my  hand  towards  where  he  had 
vanished  in  ease  he  should  be  watching;  sighed,  and  went  on. 
It  was  colder  under  the  high,  sunless  trees.  I  gathered  my 
cloak  closer  around  me,  and  at  tint  di-covered  nut  only  that 
Miss  Austen  had  been  left  behind,  hut  that  Fanny's  letter  still 
lay  in  undisturbed  concealmeui  beneath  its  -'one.  It  was  too 
late  to  return  for  them  now,  and  a  vague  misgiving  that  had 
sprung  up  in  me  amid  the  tree-trunks  was  quieted  by  the  assur- 
ance that  for  these — rather  than  for  any  other  reason — T  must 
return  to  Wanderslore  as  soon  as  I  could.  So,  in  remarkably 
gay  spirits,  I  hastened  light-heeled  on  my  way  in  the  direction 
of  civilized  society,  of  nefarious  Man,  and  of  my  never-to-be- 
blessed-too-much  Mrs  Bowater. 


193 


Chapter  Twenty-Three 

MY  landlady  was  already  awaiting  me  at  the  place  appointed, 
and  we  walked  off  together  towards  the  house.  It  had 
been  a  prudent  arrangement,  for  we  met  and  passed  at 
least  half  a  dozen  strangers  before  we  arrived  there,  and  one  and 
all  by  the  unfeigned  astonishment  with  which  they  turned  to  watch 
our  two  figures  out  of  sight  (for  I  stooped  once  or  twice,  as  if 
to  tie  my  shoelace,  in  order  to  see),  clearly  proved  themselves 
to  belong  to  that  type  of  humanity  to  which  my  new  acquaint- 
ance had  referred  frigidly  as  THEY.  Vanity  of  vanities,  when 
one  old  loitering  gentleman  did  not  so  much  as  lift  an  eyelid 
at   me — he    was    so   absorbed    in    own   thoughts — I    felt    a    pang 

of  annoyance. 

As  soon  as  I  was  safely  installed  in  my  own  room  again, 
I  confided  in  Mrs  Bowater  a  full  account  of  my  morning's 
adventure.  Not  so  much  because  I  wished  to  keep  free  of  any 
further  deceit,  as  because  I  simply  couldn't  contain  myself, 
and  must  talk  of  my  Stranger.  She  heard  me  to  the  end  without 
question,  but  with  an  unusual  rigidity  of  features.  She  com- 
pressed her  lips  even  tighter  before  beginning  her  catechism. 

"What  was  the  young  man's  name,'*  she  inquired;  "and 
where  did  he  live?" 

My  hope  had  been  that  she  herself  would  be  able  to  supply 
these  little  particulars.  With  a  blank  face,  I  shook  my  head: 
"We  just  talked  of  things  in  general." 

"I  see,"  she  said,  and  glanced  at  me,  as  if  over  her  spectacles. 
Her  next  question  was  even  less  manageable.  "Was  the  young 
fellow  a  gentleman  ?" 

Alas!  she  had  fastened  on  a  flaw  in  my  education.  This 
was  a  problem  absolutely  new  to  me.  T  thought  of  my  father, 
of  Mr  Waggett,  Dr  Grose,  Dr  Phelps,  the  old  farmer  in  the 
railway  train,  of  Sir  Walter  Pollacke,  my  bishop,  Heathcliff, 
Mr  Bowater,  Mr  Clodd,  even  Henry— or  rather  all  these  male 
194 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

phantoms  went  whisking  across  the  back  of  my  mind,  calling 
up  every  other  two-legged  creature  of  the  same  gender  within 
sight  or  hearing.  Meanwhile,  Mrs  Bowater  stood  like  Patience 
on  her  Brussels  carpet,  or  rather  like  Thomas  de  Torquemada, 
watching  these  intellectual  contortions. 

"Well,  really,  do  you  know,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  was  forced 
to  acknowledge  at  last,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile,  "I  simply  can't 
say.  I  didn't  think  of  it.  That  seems  rather  on  his  side,  doesn't 
it?  But  to  be  quite,  quite  candid,  perhaps  not  a  gentleman; 
not  exactly,  I  mean." 

"Which  is  no  more  than  I  supposed,"  was  her  comment, 
"and  if  not — and  any  kind  of  not,  miss — what  was  he,  then? 
And  if  not,  why,  you  can  never  go  there  again !" 

"Indeed,  but  I  must,"  I  said,  as  if  to  myself. 

"With  your  small  knowledge  of  the  world,"  she  retorted  un- 
movedly,  "you  must,  if  you  please,  be  guided  by  those  with 
more.  Who  isn't  a  gentleman  couldn't  be  desirable  company 
if  chanced  on  like  a  stranger  in  a  young  lady's  lonely  rambles. 
And  how  tall  did  you  say?  And  what's  more,"  she  continued, 
not  pausing  for  an  answer,  and  gathering  momentum  on  her 
way,  "if  he  is  a  gentleman,  I'd  better  come  along  with  you, 
miss,  and  see  for  myself." 

A  rebellious  and  horrified  glance  followed  her  retreating  figure 
out  of  the  room.  So  this  was  the  reward  for  being  open  and 
above-board.  What  a  ridiculous  figure  I  should  cut,  tippeting 
along  behind  my  landlady.  What  would  my  stranger  think 
of  me?  What  would  she  think  of  him?  Was  he  a  "gentleman"? 
To  decide  whether  or  not  the  Spirit  of  Man  is  an  evil  spirit  had 
been  an  easy  problem  by  comparison.  Gentle  man — why,  of 
course,  self  muttered  in  shame  to  self  convicted  of  yet  another 
mean  little  s|nobbery.  He  had  been  almost  absurdly  gentle 
— had  treated  me  as  if  I  were  an  angel  rather  than  a  young 
woman. 

But  the  nettlerash  produced  by  Mrs  Bowater's  bigotry  was 
not  to  be  so  easily  allayed  as  all  that.  It  had  invited  yet 
another  kind  of  THEM  in.  An  old.  green,  rotting  board  hung 
over  the  wicket  gate  that  led  up  the  stony  path  into  Wanderslore 
— "Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted."  Why  couldn't  one  put  boards 
up  in  the  Wanderslore  of  one's  mind  ?  My  landlady  had  never  in- 
quired if  Lady  Pollacke  was  a  gentlewoman.     How  mechanical 

195 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

things  were  in  their  unexpectedness.  That  morning  I  had  gone 
out  to  free  myself  from  the  Crimble  tangle,  merely  to  return  with 
a  few  more  knots  in  the  skein. 

A  dead  calm  descended  on  me.  I  was  adrift  in  the  Sargasso 
Sea — in  the  Doldrums,  and  had  dropped  my  sextant  overboard. 
Even  a  long  stare  at  the  master-mariner  on  the  wall  gave  me 
no  help.  Yet  I  must  confess  that  these  foolish  reflections  made 
me  happy.  I  would  share  them  with  Fanny — perhaps  with 
the  "gentleman"  himself,  some  day.  I  leaned  over  the  side  of 
my  small  vessel,  more  deeply  interested  in  the  voyage  than  I 
had  been  since  Pollie  had  carried  me  out  of  my  girlhood  into 
the  Waggetts'  wagonette.  And  as  I  sat  there,  simmering  over 
these  novelties,  a  voice,  clear  as  a  cockcrow,  exclaimed  in  my 
mind,  "If  father  hadn't  died,  I'd  have  had  nothing  of  all  this." 
My  hands  clenched  damp  in  my  lap  at  this  monstrosity.  But 
I  kept  my  wits  and  managed  to  face  it.  "If  father  hadn't 
died,"  I  answered  myself,  "you  don't  know  what  would  have 
happened.  And  if  you  think  that,  because  I  am  happy  now, 
anything  could  make  me  not  wish  him  back,  it's  a  lie."  But 
I  remained  a  little  less  comfortable  in  mind. 

The  evening  post  brought  me  a  letter  and  a  registered  parcel. 
I  turned  them  over  and  over,  examining  the  unfamiliar  hand- 
writing, the  bright  red  seals ;  but  all  in  vain.  In  spite  of 
my  hard-won  knotlore,  I  was  still  kneeling  over  the  package 
and  wrestling  with  string  and  wax,  when  Mrs  Bowater,  folding 
her  letter  away  in  its  envelope,  announced  baldly:  "She's  not 
coming  home,  it  seems,  at  all  these  holidays,  having  been  in- 
vited by  some  school  friend  into  the  country — Merriden,  or 
some  such  place.  Not  that  you  might  expect  Fanny  to  write 
plain,  when  she  doesn't  mean  plain." 

"Oh,  Mrs  Bowater !     Not  at  all  ?" 

Cold  fogs  of  disappointment  swept  in,  blotting  out  my  fool's 
paradise.  That  inward  light  without  which  life  is  dark  indeed 
died  in  eclipse.  The  one  thought  and  desire  which  I  now 
realized  I  had  been  feeding  on  from  hour  to  hour,  had  been 
snatched  away.  To  think  that  they  had  been  nothing  but 
waste.  "Oh,  Fanny,"  I  whispered  bitterly  to  myself,  "oh,  Fanny  !'' 
But  the  face  I  lifted  to  her  mother  showed  only  defiance. 
196 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Well,"  I  muttered,  "who  cares?  Let's  hope  she  will  enjoy 
herself  better  than  mooning  about  in  this  dingy  old  place." 

.Mrs  Bowater  merely  continued  to  look  quietly  over  the  en- 
velope at  me. 

"Oh.  but  you  know,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  quaked  miserably,  "it's 
not  dingy  to  me.  Surely  a  promise  is  a  promise,  whoever  you 
make  it  to !" 

With  that  1  stooped  my  face  over  the  stuffy-smelling  brown 
paper,  and  attacked  the  last  knot  with  my  teeth.  With  eyes 
still  a  little  asquint  with  resentment  1  smoothed  away  the 
wrappings  from  the  shape  within.  Then  every  thought  evaporated 
in  a  sigh.  For  there,  of  a  delicate  veined  fairness  against  the 
white  paper,  lay  a  minute  copy  in  ivory  of  none  hut  lovely 
Hypnos.  Half-blindly  1  .stared  at  it  lost  in  a  serenity  heyond 
all  hope  of  my  poor,  foolish  life — then  lifted  it  with  hoth 
hands  away  from  my  face:  "A  present — to  me!  Look!"  I  cried, 
"look !" 

Mrs  Howater  settled  her  face  over  the  image  as  if  it  had 
been  some  tropical  and  noxious  insect  I  was  offering  for  her 
inspection.     But  I  thrust  it  into  her  hand  and  opened  my  letter: — 

"My  Dear  Young  Lady, — I  am  no  poet,  and  therefore  cannot 
hope  to  share  with  you  the  music  of  'the  flaming  drake,'  but  we  did 
share  my  Hypnos.  Only  a  replica,  as  I  told  you,  but  none  the 
less  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  possess.  Will  you,  then, 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  accepting  the  contents  of  the  little  package 
1  am  having  posted  with  this — as  a  small  token  of  the  delight  your 
enthusiasm  gave   Yours   most   sincerely, — 

"Walter  Pollacke. 

"PS. — Lady  Pollacke  tells  me  that  we  may  perhaps  again  look 
forward  to  your  company  to  tea  in  a  few  days,  please  do  not  think, 
then,  of  acknowledging  this  little  message  by  po 

But  I  did  acknowledge  it.  not  with  that  guardedness  of  the 
feelings  which  Miss  Austen  seemed  to  recommend,  but  from 
the  very  depths  of  my  heart.  Next  morning  came  Lady  Pollacke's 
invitation: — 

"Dear  Miss  M., — I  hasten  to  renew  my  invitation  of  last  Thurs- 
day.    \\  ill    you    give    us    the    pleasure    of   your    company    at    tea    on 

197 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Friday  afternoon?  Mrs  Monnerie — the  younger  daughter,  as  you 
will  remember,  of  Lord  B. — has  expressed  an  exceedingly  warm 
wish  to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  Mr.  Pellew,  who  is  giving  us 
a  course  of  sermons  at  St.  Peter's  during  Holy  Week,  will  also  be 
with  us.  May  we,  perhaps,  share  yet  another  of  those  delightful 
recitations? 

"Believe   me, 

"Yours  sincerely, 
"Lydia  Preston  Pollacke." 

I  searched  my  memory  for  memorial  of  Lord  B. ;  alas,  in 
vain.  This  lapse  made  the  thought  of  meeting  his  younger 
daughter  a  little  alarming.  Yet  I  must  confess  to  having  been 
pleasantly  flattered  by  these  attentions.  Even  the  black  draught 
administered  by  Fanny,  who  had  not  even  thought  it  worth 
her  while  to  send  me  a  word  of  excuse  or  explanation,  lost  much 
of  its  bitterness.  I  asked  Mrs  Bowater  if  she  supposed  I  might 
make  Sir  Walter  a  little  present  in  return  for  his.  Would  it 
be  a  proper  thing  to  do,  would  it  be  ladylike  ? 

"What's  meant  kindly,"  she  assured  me,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "even  if  taken  amiss,  which,  to  judge  from  his  letter, 
it  won't  be,  is  nothing  to  be  thought  of  but  only  felt." 

This  advice  decided  me,  and  early  on  my  Friday  morning  I 
trimmed  and  freshened  up  as  well  as  I  could  one  of  my  grand- 
father's dwarf  cedar-trees  which,  in  the  old  days,  had  stood  on 
my  window  balcony.  Its  branches  were  now  a  little  dishevelled, 
but  it  was  still  a  fresh  and  pretty  thing  in  its  grey-green  pot. 


198 


Chapter  Twenty-Four 

WITH  tin's  dwarf  tree  in  my  arms,  when  came  the  auspicii 
afternoon,  I  followed  Lady  Pollacke's  parlourmaid — her 

neat  little  bonnet  tied  with  a  how  under  her  ear — down 
my  Bateses,  and  was  lifted  by  Mrs  Bowater  into  the  carriage. 
How  demure  a  greeting  we  exchanged  when,  the  maid  and  I 
having  seated  onrselves  together  under  its  hood,  my  glance  fell 
upon  the  bloodstone  brooch  pinned  conspicuously  for  the  occasion 
near  the  topmost  button  of  her  trim,  outdoor  jacket.  It  gave  me 
so  much  confidence  that  even  the  sudden  clatter  of  conversation 
that  gushed  out  over  me  in  the  doorway  of  Lady  Pollacke's 
drawing-room  failed  to  be  disconcerting.  The  long,  flowery 
room  was  thronged  with  company,  and  everybody  was  talking 
to  everybody  else.  On  my  entry,  as  if  a  seraph  had  spoken, 
the  busy  tongues  sank  instantly  to  a  hush.  I  stood  stilettoed 
by  a  score  of  eyes.  But  Sir  Walter  had  been  keeping  good 
watch  for  me,  and  I  at  once  delivered  my  great  pot  into  his  pink, 
outstretched  hands. 

"My  dear,  dear  young  lady,"  he  cried,  stooping  plumply  over 
me,  "the  pleasure  yon  give  me!  A  little  masterpiece:  and  real  old 
Nankin.     Alas,  my  poor  Hypnos  !" 

"But    it    is    me.    me"    I    cried.     "If    I    could    only    tell    yon!'' 

A  murmur  of  admiration  rippled  across  the  room,  in  which 
I  distinctly  heard  a  quavering,  nasal  voice  exclaim,  "Touching, 
touching !"' 

The  words — as  if  a  pleasant  sheep  had  bleated — came,  I 
fancied,  from  a  rather  less  fashionable  lady  with  a  lorgnette, 
who  was  sitting  almost  alone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  room,  and 
who  I  afterwards  discovered  was  only  a  widowed  sister  of 
Lady  Pollacke's.  But  I  could  spare  her  but  one  startled  glance, 
for,  at  the  same  moment.  I  was  being  presented  to  the  your 
daughter  of  Lord  B.  Mrs  Monnerie  -at  amply  reclining  in  an 
immense  gilded  chair — a  lady  with  a  large  and  surprising  counte- 
nance.    Lady  Pollacke's  "younger"  had  misled  my   fancy.     Far 

199 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

from  being  the  slim,  fair,  sylphlike  thing  of  my  expectations, 
Airs  Monnerie  cannot  have  been  many  years  the  junior  of  my 
godmother,  Miss  Fenne. 

Her  skin  had  fallen  into  the  queerest  folds  and  puckers. 
Her  black  swimming  eye  under  a  thick  eyebrow  gazed  down 
her  fine,  drooping  nose  at  me  with  a  dwelling  expression  at  once 
indulgent,  engrossed,  and  amused.  With  a  gracious  sweep  of 
her  hand  she  drew  aside  her  voluminous  silk  skirts  so  that  I 
could  at  once  install  myself  by  her  side  in  a  small  cane-seated 
chair  that  had  once,  I  should  fancy,  accommodated  a  baby 
Pollacke,  and  had  been  brought  down  from  the  nursery  for  this 
occasion. 

Thus,  then,  I  found  myself — the  exquisitely  self-conscious  cen- 
tre of  attention — striving  to  nibble  a  biscuit,  nurse  my  child-size 
handleless  tea-cup,  and  respond  to  her  advances  at  one  and  the 
same  time. 

Lady  Pollacke  hung  like  a  cloud  at  sunset  over  us  both,  her 
cheek  flushed  with  the  effort  to  be  amused  at  every  sentence  which 
Mrs  Monnerie  uttered  and  to  share  it  as  far  as  possible  with  the 
rest  of  her  guests. 

"A  little  pale,  eh  ?"  mused  Mrs  Monnerie,  brooding  at  me  with 
her  great  eye.  "She  wants  sea-air ;  sea-air — just  to  tinge  that  rose- 
leaf  porcelain.     I  must  arrange  it." 

I  assured  her  that  I  was  in  the  best  of  health. 

"Not  at  all,"  she  replied.  "All  young  people  boast  of  their 
health.  When  I  was  your  age  every  thought  of  illness  was  as 
black  as  a  visitation  of  the  devil.  That's  the  door  where  we  must 
lay  all  such  evils,  isn't  it,  Mr  Pellew?" 

A  lean,  tall,  birdlike  figure,  the  hair  on  his  head  still  showing 
traces  of  auburn,  disengaged  itself  from  a  knot  of  charmed  spec- 
tators.   . 

"Ah,"  he  said.  "But  I  doubt,  now,"  he  continued,  with  a  little 
deprecating  wave  of  his  tea-cup  at  me,  "if  Miss  M.  can  remember 
me.  When  we  first  met  we  were  precisely  one  week  old,  precisely 
one  week  old." 

W by,  like  Dr  Phelps,  Mr  Pellew  referred  to  me  as  we  I  had  not 
time  to  consider,  for  he  was  already  confiding  to  Mrs  Monnerie 
that  he  had  never  baptized  an  infant  who  more  strenuously  ob- 
jected to  Holy  Water  than  had  T.  I  looked  at  his  long,  fair  eye- 
lashes and  the  smile-line  on  his  cheek  as  he  bent  with  a  sort  of  joc- 
200 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ular  urbanity  over  her  chair,  but  could  not  recall  his  younger  face, 
though  during  my  christening  I  must,  of  course,  have  gazed  at  him 
even  more  absorbedly. 

"  'Remember'  you — I'll  be  hound  she  did,"  cried  Mrs  Monnerie 
with  enthusiasm,  "or  was  it  the  bachelor  thumb?     The  mere;. 
you  didn't  drop  her  into  the  font.     Can  you  swim,  my  dear?" 

"I  couldn't  at  a  week,"  I  replied  as  archly  as  possible.  "But  I 
can  swim;  my  father  taught  me." 

"But  how  wonderful!"  broke  our  listeners  into  chorus. 

"There  we  are,  then,"  asserted  Mrs  Monnerie;  "sea-bathing! 
And  are  we  a  swimmer,  Mr  I  'ellew ?" 

Mr  Pellew  seemed  not  to  have  caught  her  question.  He  was 
assuring  me  that  Miss  Fenne  had  kept  him  well  informed — well 
informed  of  all  my  doings.  He  trusted  I  was  comfortable  with  the 
excellent  Mrs  Bowater,  and  hoped  that  some  day  I  should  he  ahle 
to  pay  a  visit  to  his  rectory  in  Devonshire.  "Mrs  Pellew,  he 
knew.  ..."  What  he  knew  about  Mrs  Pellew,  however,  was 
never  divulged,  for  Mrs  Monnerie  swallowed  him  up: — 

"Devonshire,  my  dear  Mr  Pellew!  no,  indeed.  Penthouse 
lanes,  redhot  fields,  staring  cows.  Imagine  it!  She  would  be 
dried  up  like  a  leaf.  What  she  wants  is  a  mild  hut  bracing  sea- 
air.     It  shall  be  arranged.     And  who  is  this  Mrs  Bowater?" 

At  this  precise  moment,  among  the  strange  faces  far  above  me, 
I  descried  that  of  Mr  Crimble,  modestly  peering  out  of  the  back- 
ground. He  coughed,  and  in  a  voice  I  should  scarcely  have  recog- 
nized as  his,  informed  Mrs  Monnerie  that  my  landlady  was  "a  most 
res — an  admirable  woman."  He  paused,  coughed  again,  swept 
my  soul  with  his  -lance — "1  assure  you,  Mrs  Monnerie,  in  view 
of — of  all  the  circumstances,  one  couldn't  be  in  better  hands.  In- 
deed the  house  is  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  well  out  of  the  town,  yet 
not  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  walk  from  my  mother's." 

"Hah!"  remarked  Mrs  Monnerie,  with  an  inflection  that  I  am 
sure  need  not  have  brought  a  warmth  to  my  cheek,  or  a  duskier 
pallor  to  Mr  Crdmble's. 

"You  have  perhaps  heard  the  tragic  story  of  Wanderslore,"  per- 
sisted Mr  Crimble;  "Miss  M.'s — er — lodgings  are  immediately  ad- 
jacent to  the  park." 

"I  [ah  !"  repeated  Mrs  Monnerie,  even  more  emphatically.  "Mrs 
Bowater,  eh?  Well,  1  must  see  for  myself.  And  I'm  told.  Miss 
M.,"  she  swept  down  at  me,  "that  you  have  a  beautiful  gift  for 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

recitation."     She  looked  round,  patted  her  lap  imperiously,  and 
cried,  "Come,  now,  who's  to  break  the  ice  ?" 

In  fact,  no  doubt,  Airs  Monnerie  was  not  so  arbitrary  a  mistress 
of  Lady  Pollacke's  little  ceremony  as  this  account  of  it  may  sug- 
gest. But  that  is  how  she  impressed  me  at  the  time.  She  the  sun, 
and  I  the  least— but  I  hope  not  the  least  grateful— of  her  obsequi- 
ous planets.  Lady  Pollacke  at  any  rate  set  immediately  to 
breaking  the  ice.  She  prevailed  upon  a  Miss  Templemaine  to  sing. 
And  we  all  sat  mute. 

I  liked  Miss  Templemaine's  appearance — brown  hair,  straight 
nose,  dark  eyelashes,  pretty  fringe  beneath  her  peak-brimmed  hat. 
But  I  was  a  little  distressed  by  her  song,  which,  so  far  as  I  could 
gather,  was  about  two  persons  with  more  or  less  broken  hearts 
who  were  compelled  to  part  and  said,  "Ah"  for  a  long  time.  Only 
physically  distressed,  however,  for  though  I  seemed  to  be  shaken 
in  its  strains  like  a  linnet  in  the  wind,  its  adieux  were  protracted 
enough  to  enable  me  to  examine  the  rest  of  the  company  at  my 
leisure.  Their  eyes,  I  found,  were  far  more  politely  engaged  the 
while  in  gazing  composedly  down  at  the  carpet  or  up  at  the  ceiling. 
And  when  I  did  happen  to  intercept  a  gliding  glance  in  my  direc- 
tion, it  was  almost  as  if  with  a  tiny  explosion  that  it  collided  with 
mine  and  broke  away. 

Mrs  Monnerie's  eyelids,  on  the  other  hand,  with  a  faintly  flutter- 
ing motion,  remained  closed  from  the  first  bar  to  the  last — a 
method  of  appreciation  I  experimented  with  for  a  moment  but 
quickly  abandoned ;  while  at  the  first  clash  of  the  keys,  Sir  Walter 
had  dexterously  contrived  to  slide  himself  out  of  the  room  by  the 
door  at  which  he  had  unexpectedly  entered  it  on  my  first  visit. 
Such  was  the  social  situation  when,  after  murmurs  of  gratitude 
and  applause,  Miss  Templemaine  took  up  her  gloves  and  rose 
from  the  piano,  and  Mrs  Monnerie  reopened  herself  to  the  outer 
world  with  the  ejaculation,  "That's  right.     Now,  my  dear !" 

The  summons  was  to  me.  My  moment  had  come,  but  I  was 
prepared  for  it.  In  my  last  ordeal  I  had  broken  down  because  I 
had  chosen  a  poem  that  was  a  kind  of  secret  thing  in  my  mind. 
So,  after  receiving  Lady  Pollacke's  letter,  I  had  hunted  about  for 
a  recitation  as  short,  but  less  personal :  one,  I  mean,  whose  senti- 
ments I  didn't  mind.  And  since  Mrs  Bullace  had  chosen  two  of 
Mrs  Browning's  pieces  for  her  triumph  on  New  Year's  Eve,  I 
argued  that  she  knew  the  parish  taste,  and  that  I  could  do  no  better. 
202 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Of  course,  too,  composure  over  what  I  was  going  to  do  was  far 
more  important  than  the  composition. 

"Prepared  for  it,"  I  said  just  now,  but  I  meant  it  only  in  the 
sense  that  one  prepares  for  a  cold  hath.  There  was  still  the 
plunge.  I  clasped  my  hands,  stood  up.  Ceiling  and  floor  gently 
rocked  a  little.  There  seemed  to  be  faces — faces  everywhere,  and 
every  eye  in  them  was  fixed  on  me.  Thus  completely  encom- 
passed, I  could  find  no  refuge  from  them,  for  unfortunately  my 
Hypnos  was  completely  obliterated  from  view  by  the  lady  with 
the  lorgnette.  So  I  fixed  my  attention,  instead,  on  the  window, 
where  showed  a  blank  break  of  clear,  fair,  blue  sky  between  the 
rain-clouds  of  afternoon.  A  nervous  cough  from  Lady  Pol- 
lacke  plunged  me  over,  and  I  announced  my  title :  "The  Weakest 
Thing,"  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning: — 

"Which  is  the  weakest  thing  of  all 
Mine  heart  can  ponder? 
The  sun,  a  little  cloud  can  pall 

With    darkness    yonder ! 
The  cloud,  a  little  wind  can  move 

Where'er  it  listeth  ; 
The  wind,  a  little  leaf  above, 
Though  sere,  resisteth  ! 

What  time  that  yellow  leaf  was  green, 

My  days  were  gladder: 
Xow  on  its  branch   each  summer-sheen 

May  find  me  sadder  ! 
Ah.  me !  a  leaf  with  sighs  can  wring 

My  lips  asunder — 
Then  is  my  heart  the  weakest  thing 

Itself  can  ponder. 

Yet,  Heart,  when  sun  and  cloud  are  pined 

And  drop  together; 
And  at  a  blast  which  is  not  wind. 

The  forests  wither, 
Thou,   from  the  darkening,  deathly  curse 

To  glory  breakest, — 
The   Strongest  of  the  Universe 

Guarding  the  weakest." 

The  applause,  in  which  Miss  Templemaine  generously  joined, 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

was  this  time  quite  unconcealed,  and  Lady  Pollacke's  sister's 
last  "Touching"  had  hardly  died  away  when  Mrs  Monnerie  added 
her  approbation. 

"Charming,  perfectly  charming,"  she  murmured,  eyeing  me  like 
a  turtle-dove.  "But  tell  me,  my  dear,  why  that  particular  poem? 
It  seemed  to  have  even  less  sense  than  usual." 

"No-o ;  ye-es,"  breathed  Lady  Pollacke,  and  many  heads  nodded 
in  discreet  accord. 

"Doesn't — er — perhaps,  Mrs  Browning  dwell  rather  assiduously 
on  the  tragic  side  of  life?"  Mr  Crimble  ventured  to  inquire. 

Lady  Pollacke  jerked  her  head,  either  in  the  affirmative  or  in  the 
negative,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Mrs  Monnerie,  who  merely 
drooped  her  eyes  a  little  closer  towards  me  and  smiled,  almost  as 
if  she  and  I  were  in  a  little  plot  together. 

"What  do  you  say,  Miss  M.  ?" 

"Well,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  I  replied  a  little  nervously,  for  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  me,  "I  don't  think  I  know  myself  what  exactly 
the  poem  means — the  who's  and  what's — and  what  the  blast  was 
which  was  not  wind.  But  I  thought  it  was  a  poem  which  every 
one  would  understand  as  much  as  possible  of." 

To  judge  from  the  way  she  quivered  in  her  chair,  though  quite 
inaudibly,  Mrs  Monnerie  was  extremely  amused  at  this  criticism. 

"And  that  is  why  you  chose  it  ?" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  I,  "you  see,  when  one  is  listening  to  poetry, 
not  reading  it  to  oneself,  I  mean,  one  hasn't  time  to  pry  about 
for  all  its  bits  of  meaning,  but  only  just  to  get  the  general — 
general — " 

"Aroma?"  suggested  Mrs  Monnerie. 

"Yes — aroma." 

"And  the  moral?" 

The  silence  that  hung  over  this  little  exchange  was  growing 
more  and  more  dense.  Luckless  Miss  M. !  She  only  plunged 
herself  deeper  into  it  by  her  reply  that,  "Oh,  there's  nothing 
very  much  in  the  moral,  Mrs  Monnerie.  That's  quite  ordinary. 
At  least  I  read  about  that  in  prose,  why,  before  I  was  seven  !" 

"Touch—  began  that  further  voice,  but  was  silenced  by 
a  testy  lift  of  Mrs  Monnerie's  eyelid.  "Indeed!"  she  said,  "and 
couldn't  you.  wouldn't  you,  now,  give  me  the  prose  version? 
That's  more  my  mark." 

"It  was  in  a  little  nursery  lesson-book  of  mine,  called  The 
204 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Observing  Eye;  letters  about  snails  and  coral  insects  and  spiders 
and  things "  I  paused.  "A  book,  rather,  you  know.  Eor  Sun- 
days.     But  my—  my   family  and  I " 

"Oli,  hut  do,"  cried  Lady  1'ollaeke  in  a  voice  I  should  hardly 
have  recognized,  "I  adore  snails." 

(  )nce  more  I  was  cornered.  So  1  steeled  myself  anew,  and 
stumbled  through  the  brief  passage  in  the  squat,  blue  hook. 
It  tells  how, — 

"Tin'  history  of  each  one  of  the  animals  we  have  now  considered, 
teaches  us  that  our  kind  God  watches  over  the  wants  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  meanest  of  His  creatures.  We  see  that  He  gives  to 
them,  not  only  the  sagacity  and  the  instruments  which  they  need  for 
catching  their  food,  hut  that  He  also  provides  them  with  some  means 
of  defending  themselves.  We  learn  by  their  history  that  the  gracious 
Eye  watches  under  the  mighty  waters,  as  well  as  over  the  earth,  and 
that  no  creature  can  stop  doing  His  will  without  His  eye  seeing  it." 


305 


Chapter   Twenty-Five 

ONCE  more  I  sat  down,  but  this  time  in  the  midst  of  what 
seemed  to  me  a  rather  unpleasant  silence,  as  if  the  room  had 
grown  colder :  a  silence  which  was  broken  only  by  the 
distant  whistlings  of  a  thrush.  At  one  and  the  same  moment  both 
Mr  Pellew  and  Mr  Crimble  returned  to  tea-cups  which  I  should 
have  supposed  must  have,  by  this  time,  been  empty,  and  Lady 
Pollacke's  widowed  sister  folded  up  her  lorgnette. 

"My  dear  Miss  M.,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie  dryly,  with  an  almost 
wicked  ray  of  amusement  in  her  deep-set  eyes,  "wherever  the 
top  of  Beechwood  Hill  may  be,  and  whatever  supplies  of  food 
may  be  caught  on  its  crest,  there  is  no  doubt  that  you  have 
been  provided  with  the  means  of  defending  yourself.  But  tell 
me  now,  what  do  you  think,  perhaps,  Mr  Pellczv's  little  'instru- 
ments' are?  Or,  better  still — mine?  Am  I  a  mollusc  with  a 
hard  shell,  or  a  scorpion  with  a  sting?" 

Lady  Pollacke  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking  down  on 
me  like  a  hen,  though  not  exactly  a  motherly  one.  But  this 
was  a  serious  question  over  which  I  must  not  be  flustered, 
so  I  took  my  time.  I  folded  my  hands,  and  fixed  a  long,  long 
look  on  Mrs  Monnerie.  Even  after  all  these  years,  I  confess 
it  moves  me  to  recall  it. 

"Of  course,  really  and  truly,"  I  said  at  last,  as  deferentially 
as  I  could,  "I  haven't  known  you  long  enough  to  say.  But  I 
should  think,  Mrs  Monnerie,  you  always  knew  the  truth." 

I  was  glad  I  had  not  been  too  impetuous.  My  reply  evidently 
pleased  her.     She  chuckled  all  over. 

"Ah,"  she  said  reposefully,  "the  truth.  And  that  is  why, 
I  suppose,  like  Sleeping  Beauty,  I  am  so  thickly  hedged  in  with 
the  thorns  and  briers  of  affection..  Well,  well,  there's  one  little 
truth  we'll  share  alone,  you  and  I."  She  raised  herself  in  her 
chair  and  stooped  her  great  face  close  to  my  ear:  "We  must 
know  more  of  one  another,  my  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I  have 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  you.  We  must  meet  again." 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

She  hoisted  herself  up.  Sir  Walter  Pollacke  had  hastened 
in  and  stood  smiling,  with  arm  hooked,  and  genial,  beaming 
countenance  in  front  of  her.  Mr  Crimble  had  already  vanished. 
Mr  Pellew  was  talking  earnestly  with  Lady  Pollacke.  Conver- 
sation broke  out,  like  a  storm-shower,  on  every  side.  For  a 
while  I  was  extraordinarily  alone. 

Into  this  derelict  moment  a  fair-cheeked,  breathless  lady  de- 
scended, and  surreptitiously  thrusting  a  crimson  padded  birth- 
day book  and  a  miniature  pencil  into  my  lap,  entreated  my 
autograph — "Just  your  signature,  yon  know — -for  my  small 
daughter.     How  she  would   have  loved  to  be  here!" 

This  lady  cannot  have  been  many  years  older  than  I,  and 
one  of  those  instantaneous,  fleeting  affections  sprang  up  in  me 
as  I  looked  up  at  her  for  the  first  and  only  time,  and  seemed 
to  see  that  small  daughter  smiling  at  me  out  of  her  face. 

Alas,  such  is  vanity.  1  tinned  over  the  leaves  to  August 
30th  and  found  printed  there,  for  motto,  a  passage  from  Shake- 
speare : — 

"He  that  has  had  a  little  tiny  wit, — 
With  hey,  ho.  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  fit. 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day." 

The  29th  was  little  less  depressing,  from  Samuel  Taylor  Cole- 
ridge : — 

"lie  prayeth  best  who  loveth  besl 
All  creatures  great  and  small." 

This  would  never  do.  I  bent  double  over  the  volume,  turned 
back  hastily  three  or  four  leaves,  ,and  scrawded  in  my  name 
under  August  25th  on  a  leaf  that  bore  the  ^notation  : — 

"Fie  on't;  ah,  fie!  'tis  an  unweeded  garden. 
That  grows  to  seed;  things  rank  anil  gross  in  nature 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  !" 

and  beneath  the  quotation,  the  signature  of  Josephine  Mildred 
Spratte. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  she  will  be  overjoyed,"  blushed  the 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

fair-haired  lady.  A  sudden  hunger  for  solitude  seized  upon 
me.  I  rose  hastily,  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  a  headache, 
caused,  no  doubt,  by  the  expensive  and  fumey  perfumes  in  the 
air.  Threading  my  way  between  the  trains  and  flounces  and 
trouser-legs  around  me,  at  last  my  adieux  were  over.  I  was 
in  the  porch — in  the  carriage.  The  breezes  of  heaven  were  on 
my  cheek.  My  blessed  parlourmaid  was  once  more  installed 
beside  me.  Yet  even  now  the  Pollacke  faces  were  still  flocking 
in  my  mind.  The  outside  world  was  very  sluggishly  welling 
in.  Looking  up  so  long  had  stiffened  my  neck.  I  fixed  my 
eyes  on  the  crested  back  buttons  of  Lady  Pollacke's  stiff-looking 
coachman,  and  committed  myself  to  my  thoughts. 

It  was  to  a  Miss  M.,  with  one  of  her  own  handkerchiefs 
laid  over  her  brows,  and  sprinkled  with  vinegar  and  lavender 
water,  that  Mrs  Bowater  brought  in  supper  that  evening.  We 
had  one  of  our  broken  talks  together,  none  the  less.  But  she 
persisted  in  desultory  accounts  of  Fanny's  ailments  in  her  in- 
fancy; and  I  had  to  drag  in  Brunswick  House  by  myself.  At 
which  she  poked  the  fire  and  was  mum.  It  was  unamiable  of 
her.  I  longed  to  share  my  little  difficulties  and  triumphs.  Surely 
she  was  showing  rather  too  much  of  that  discrimination  which 
Lady  Pollacke  had  recommended. 

She  snorted  at  Mr  Pellew,  she  snorted  at  my  friendly  parlour- 
maid and  even  at  Mrs  Monnerie.  Even  when  I  repeated  for 
her  ear  alone  my  nursery  passage  from  The  Observing  Eye,  her 
only  comment  was  that  to  judge  from  some  fine  folk  she  knew 
of,  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  God  watched  closely  over  the 
pleasures  of  the  meanest  of  His  creatures,  but  as  for  their 
doing  His  will,  she  hadn't  much  noticed  it. 

To  my  sigh  of  regret  that  Fanny  had  not  been  at  home  to 
accompany  me,  she  retorted  with  yet  another  onslaught  on  the 
fire,  and  the  apophthegm,  that  the  world  would  be  a  far  better 
place  if  people  kept  themselves  to  themselves. 

"But  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  argued  fretfully,  "if  I  did  that,  I  should 
just— distil,  as  you  might  say,  quite  away.  Besides,  Fanny 
would  have  been  far,  far  the — the  grace1  fullest  person  there. 
Mrs  Monnerie  would  have  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  now,  if  you 
like." 

Mrs  Bowater  drew  in  her  lips  and  rubbed  her  nose.     "God 
forbid,"  she  said. 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

But  it  was  her  indifference  to  the  impression  that  I  myself 
had  made  on  Mrs  Monnerie  that  nettled  me  the  most.  "Why, 
then,  who  is  Lord  B.?"  I  inquired  impatiently  at  last,  pushing 
back  the  bandage  that  had  fallen  over  my  eyes. 

"From  what  I've  heard  of  Lord  B.,"  said  Mrs  Bowater  shortly, 
"he  was  a  gentleman  of  whom  the  less  heard  of's  the  better."  ' 

"But  surely,''  I  protested,  "that  isn't  Mrs  Monnerie's  fault 
any  more  than  Fanny's  being  so  lovely — I  mean,  than  I  being 
a  midget  was  my  father's  fault?  Anyhow,"  I  hurried  on,  "Mrs 
Monnerie  says  I  look  pale,  and  must  go  to  the  sea." 

Mrs  Bowater  was  still  kneeling  by  the  fire,  just  as  Fanny 
used  to  kneel.  And,  like  Fanny,  when  one  most  expected  an 
answer,  she  remained  silent ;  though,  unlike  Fanny,  it  seemed 
to  be  not  because  she  was  dreaming  of  something  else.  How 
shall  I  express  it? — there  fell  a  kind  of  loneliness  between  us. 
The  severe  face  made  no  sign. 

"Would  you — would  you  miss  me?"  some  silly  self  within 
piped  out  pathetically. 

"Why,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  was  her  sardonic  reply,  "there's 
not  very  much  of  you  to  miss." 

I  rose  from  my  bed,  flung  down  the  bandage,  and  ran  down 
my  little  staircase.  "Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  said,  burying  my  face 
in  her  camphory  skirts,  "be  kind  to  me;  be  kind  to  me!  I've 
nobody  but  you." 

The  magnanimous  creature  stroked  my  vinegar-sodden  hair 
with  the  tips  of  her  horny  fingers.  "Why  there,  miss.  I  meant 
no  harm.  Isn't  all  the  gentry  and  nobility  just  gaping  to  snatch 
you  up?  You  won't  want  your  old  Mrs  Bowater  very  long. 
What's  more,  you  mustn't  get  carried  away  by  yourself.  You 
never  know  where  that  journey  ends.  If  sea  it  is,  sea  it  must 
be.     Though,    Lord   preserve    us,    the   word's    no    favourite   of 


mine." 


"But  suppose,  suppose,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  cried,  starting  up 
and  smiling  enrapturedly  into  her  face,  "suppose  we  could  go 
together !" 

"That,"  said  she,  with  a  look  of  astonishing  benignity,  "would 
be  just  what  I  was  being  led  to  suppose  was  the  heighth  of  the 
impossible." 

At  which,  of  course,  we  at  once  began  discussing  ways  and 
means.     But,  delicious  though  this  prospect  seemed,  I  determined 

209 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

that  nothing  should  persuade  me  to  go  unless  all  hope  of  Fanny's 
coming  home  proved  vain.  Naturally,  from  Fanny  memory 
darted  to  Wanderslore.  I  laughed  up  at  my  landlady,  holding 
her  finger,  and  suggested  demurely  that  we  should  go  off  to- 
gether on  the  morrow  to  see  if  my  stranger  were  true  to  his 
word. 

"We  have  kept  him  a  very  long  time,  and  if,  as  you  seem 
to  think,  Mrs  Monnerie  isn't  such  a  wonderful  lady,  you  may 
decide  that  after  all  he  is  a  gentleman." 

She  enjoyed  my  little  joke,  was  pleased  that  I  had  been  won 
over,  but  refused  to  accept  my  reasoning,  though  the  topic  itself 
was  after  her  heart. 

"The  point  is,  miss,  not  whether  your  last  conquest  is  a 
wonderful  lady,  or  a  grand  lady,  or  even  a  perfect  lady  for  the 
matter  of  that,  but,  well,  a  lady.  It's  that's  the  kind  in  my  ex- 
perience that  comes  nearest  to  being  as  uncommon  a  sort  as 
any  sort  of  a  good  woman." 

This  was  a  wholly  unexpected  vista  for  me,  and  I  peered 
down  its  smooth,  green,  aristocratic  sward  with  some  little  awe. 
"As  for  the  young  fellow  who  made  himself  so  free  in  his 
manners,"  she  went  on  placidly,  so  that  I  had  to  scamper  back 
to  pick  her  up  again,  "I  have  no  doubt  seeing  will  be  believing." 
"But  what  is  the  story  of  Wanderslore?"  I  pressed  her  none 
too  honestly. 

The  story — and  this  time  Mrs  Bowater  poured  it  out  quite 
freely — was  precisely  what  I  had  been  told  already,  but  with 
the   addition   that  the   young   woman   who   had   hanged   herself 
in  one  of  its  attics  had  done  so  for  jealousy. 
"Jealousy  !     But  of  whom  ?"  I  inquired. 
"Her  husband's,  not  her  own :  driven  wild  by  his." 
"You    really    mean,"    I    persisted,    "that    she    couldn't    endure 
to  live  any  longer  because  her  husband  loved  her  so  much  that 
he  couldn't  bear  anybody  else  to  love  her  too?" 

"In  some  such  measure,"  replied  Mrs  Bowater,  "though  I 
don't  say  he  didn't  help  the  other  way  round.  But  she  was  a 
wild,  scattering  creature.  It  was  just  her  way.  The  less  she 
cared,  the  more  they  flocked.  She  couldn't  collect  herself,  and 
say,  'Here  I  am;  who  are  you?'  so  to  speak.  Ah,  miss,  it's 
a  sickly  and  dangerous  thing  to  be  too  much  admired." 
"But  you  said  'scattering':  was  she  mad  a  little?" 

210 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"No.  Peculiar,  perhaps,  with  her  sidelong,  startled  look.  A 
lovelier  I've  never  seen." 

"You've  seen  her !" 

"Thirty  years  ago,  perhaps.     Alive  and  dead." 

"Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,  poor  thing,  poor  thing." 

"That  you  may  well  say,  for  lovely  in  the  latter  rinding  she 
was  not." 

My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire,  but  the  picture  conjured  up 
was  dark  even  amidst  the  red-hot  coals.  "And  he  ?  did  he  die  too  ? 
At  least  his  jealousy  was  broken  away." 

"And  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Mrs  Bowater.  "It's 
like  the  men  to  go  on  wanting,  even  when  it  comes  to  scrabbling 
at  a  grave.  And  there's  a  trashy  sort  of  creature,  though  well- 
set-up  enough  from  the  outside,  that  a  spark  will  put  in  a  blaze. 
I've  no  doubt  he  was  that  kind." 

I  thought  of  my  own  sparks,  but  questioned  on :  "Then  there's 
nothing  else  but — but  her  ghost  there  now?" 

"Lor,  gliosts,  miss,  it's  an  hour,  I  see,  when  bed's  the  proper 
place  for  you  and  me.  I  look  to  be  scared  by  that  kind  of 
gentry  when  they  come  true." 

"You  don't  believe,  then,  in  Destroyers,  Mrs  Bowater?" 

"Miss,  it's  those  queer  books  you  are  reading,"  was  the  evasive 
reply.  "  'Destroyers' !  Why,  wasn't  it  cruel  enough  to  drive 
that  poor  feather-brained  creature  into  a  noose !" 

Candle  and  I  and  drowsing  cinders  kept  company  until  St 
Peter's  bell  had  told  only  the  sleepless  that  midnight  was  over 
the  world.  It  seemed  to  my  young  mind  that  there  was  not 
a  day,  scarcely  an  hour,  I  lived,  but  that  Life  was  unfolding 
itself  in  ever  new  and  ravishing  disguises.  I  had  not  begun 
to  be  in  the  least  tired  or  afraid  of  it.  Smallest  of  bubbles  I 
might  be,  tossing  on  the  great  waters,  but  I  reflected  the  universe. 
What  need  of  courage  when  no  danger  was  apparent?  Surely  one 
need  not  mind  being  different  if  that  difference  added  to  one's 
share  in  the  wonderful  Banquet.  Even  Wanderslore's  story  was 
only  of  what  happened  when  the  tangle  was  so  harshly  knotted 
that  no  mortal  fingers  could  unravel  it.  And  though  my  own 
private  existence  now  had  Mrs  Monnerie — and  all  that  she  might 
do  and  mean  and  be — to  cope  with,  as  well  as  my  stranger 
who  was  yet  another  queer  story  and  as  yet  mine  alone,  these 
complications   were   enticing.     One   must   just   keep   control   of 

211 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

them;  that  was  all.  At  which  I  thought  a  little  unsteadily  of 
Fanny's  "pin,"  and  remembered  that  that  pin  was  helping  to 
keep  her  and  Mr  Crimble  from  being  torn  apart. 

He  had  seemed  so  peering  a  guest  at  Brunswick  House. 
Mrs  Monnerie  hadn't  so  much  as  glanced  at  him  when  he  had 
commented  on  Mrs  Browning's  poems.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
shadow  over  whatever  he  did.  It  was  as  though  there  could 
be  a  sadness  in  the  very  coursing  of  one's  blood.  How  thankful 
I  felt  that  mine  hadn't  been  a  really  flattering  reply  to  Mrs 
Monnerie's  question.  She  was  extremely  arrogant,  even  for  a 
younger  daughter  of  a  lord.  On  the  other  hand,  though,  of 
course,  the  sheer  novelty  of  me  had  had  something  to  do  with 
it,  she  had  certainly  singled  me  out  afterwards  to  know  what 
I  thought,  and  in  thoughts  there  is  no  particular  size,  only  ef- 
fusiveness— no,  pkrcingncss.  I  smiled  to  myself  at  the  word, 
pitied  my  godmother  for  living  so  sequestered  a  life,  and  wondered 
how  and  why  it  was  that  my  father  and  mother  had  so  obstinately 
shut  me  away  from  the  world.  If  only  Fanny  was  coming  home 
— what  a  difference  she  would  find  in  her  fretful  Midge!  And 
with  that,  I  discovered  that  my  feet  were  cold  and  that  my  head- 
ache had  ached  itself  away. 


212 


Chapter  Twenty-Six 


Tl  1  ERE  had  been  no  need  to  reserve  the  small  hours  for  these 
ruminations.  The  next  few  days  were  wet  and  windy ; 
every  glance  at  the  streaming  panes  cast  my  mind  into  a  sort 
of  vacancy.  The  wind  trumpeted  smoke  into  the  room ;  I  could 
fix  my  mind  on  nothing.  Then  the  weather  faired.  There  came 
"a  red  sky  at  night,"  and  Spica  flashing  secrets  to  me  across  the 
darkness ;  and  that  supper-time  I  referred  as  casually  as  possible 
to  Mr  Anon. 

"I  suppose  one  must  keep  one's  promises,  Mrs  Bowater, 
even  to  a  stranger.  Would  half-past  six  be  too  early  to  keep 
mine,  do  you  think?  Would  it  look  too — forward?  Of  course 
he  may  have  forgotten  all  about  me  by  this  time." 

Mrs  Bowater  eyed  me  like  an  owl  as  I  bent  my  cheeks  over 
my  bowl  of  bread  and  milk,  and  proceeded  to  preach  me  yet 
another  little  sermon  on  the  ways  of  the  world.  Nevertheless, 
the  next  morning  saw  us  setting  out  together  in  the  crisp, 
sparkling  air  to  my  tryst,  with  the  tacit  understanding  that  she 
accompanied  me  rather  in  the  cause  of  propriety  than  romance. 

Owing,  I  fancy,  to  a  bunion,  she  was  so  leisurely  a  walker 
that  it  was  I  who  must  set  my  pace  to  hers.  But  the  day 
promised  to  be  warm,  and  we  could  take  our  ease.  As  we 
wandered  on  among  the  early  flowers  and  bright,  green  grass, 
and  under  the  beeches,  a  mildness  lightened  into  her  face.  Over 
her  long  features  lay  a  vacant  yet  happy  smile,  of  which  she 
seemed  to  be  unaware.  This  set  me  off  thinking  in  the  old, 
old  fashion ;  comparing  my  lot  with  that  of  ordinary  human 
beings.  How  fortunate  I  was.  If  only  she  could  have  seen 
the  lowlier  plants  as  1  could — scarcely  looking  down  on  any, 
and  of  the  same  stature  as  some  among  the  taller  of  them,  so 
that  the  air  around  me  was  dyed  and  illumined  with  their 
clear  colours,  and  bnrthened  with  their  breath. 

The  least  and  humblest  of  them — not  merely  crisp-edged  lichen, 

213 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

speckle-seed  whitlow-grass  and  hyssop  in  the  wall — are  so  close 
to  earth,  the  wonder,  indeed,  is  that  common-sized  people  ever 
see  them  at  all.  They  must,  at  any  rate,  I  thought,  commit  them- 
selves to  their  stomachs,  or  go  down  on  their  knees  to  see  them 
properly.  So,  on  we  went,  Mrs  Bowater  and  I,  she  pursuing  her 
private  musings,  and  I  mine. 

I  smiled  to  myself  at  remembrance  of  Dr  Phelps  and  his 
blushes.  After  all,  if  humanity  should  "dwindle  into  a  delicate 
littleness,"  it  would  make  a  good  deal  more  difference  than  he  had 
supposed.  What  a  destruction  would  ensue,  among  all  the  lesser 
creatures  of  the  earth,  the  squirrels,  moles,  voles,  hedgehogs, 
and  the  birds,  not  to  mention  the  bees  and  hornets.  They 
would  be  the  enemies  then — the  traps  and  poisons  and  the 
nets !  No  more  billowy  cornfields  a  good  yard  high,  no  more 
fine  nine-foot  hedges  flinging  their  blossoms  into  the  air.  And  all 
the  long-legged,  "doubled,"  bloated  garden  flowers,  gone  clean  out 
of  favour.  It  would  be  a  little  world,  would  it  be  a  happier?  The 
dwarfed  Mrs  Bowaters,  Dr  Phelpses,  Miss  Bullaces,  Lady 
Pollackes. 

But  there  was  little  chance  of  such  an  eventuality — at  least 
in  my  lifetime.  It  was  far  likelier  that  the  Miss  M.'s  of  the 
world  would  continue  to  be  a  by-play.  Yet,  as  I  glanced  up 
at  my  companion,  and  called  to  mind  other  such  "Lapland 
Giants"  of  mine,  I  can  truthfully  avouch  that  I  did  not  much 
envy  their  extra  inches.  So  much  more  thin-skinned  surface 
to  be  kept  warm  and  unscratched.  The  cumbersome  bones,  the 
curious  distance  from  foot  and  fingertip  to  brain,  too ;  and 
those  quarts  and  quarts  of  blood.  I  shuddered.  It  was  little 
short  of  a  miracle  that  they  escaped  continual  injury;  and 
what  an  extended  body  in  which  to  die. 

On  the  other  hand,  what  real  loss  was  mine — with  so  much 
to  my  advantage?  These  great  spreading  beech-trees  were  no 
less  shady  and  companionable  to  me  than  to  them.  Nor,  thought 
I,  could  moon  or  sun  or  star  or  ocean  or  mountain  be  any  the 
less  silvery,  hot,  lustrous,  and  remote,  forlorn  in  beauty,  or  vast 
in  strangeness,  one  way  or  the  other,  than  they  are  to  ordinary 
people.  Could  there  be  any  doubt  at  all,  too,  that  men  had 
always  coveted  to  make  much  finer  and  more  delicate  things 
than  their  clumsiness  allowed? 

What  fantastic  creatures  they  were ! — with  their  vast  mansions, 
214 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pyramids,  palaces,  scores  of  sizes  too  large  either  for  carcass  or 
mind.  Their  Satan  a  monster  on  whose  wrist  the  vulture  of  the 
Andes  could  perch  like  an  aphis  on  my  thumb  ;  vet  their  Death 
but  skeleton-high,  and  their  Saviour  of  such  a  stature  that  well- 
nigh  without  stooping  He  could  have  laid  His  fingers  on  my  head. 

Time's  sands  had  been  trickling  East  while  I  thought  these 
small  thoughts  that  bright  spring  daybreak.  So,  though  we 
had  loitered  on  our  way,  it  seemed  we  had  reached  our  destina- 
tion on  the  wings  of  the  morning.  Alas,  Mrs  Bowater's  smile 
can  have  been  only  skin-deep;  for,  when,  lifting  my  eyes  from 
the  ground  I  stopped  all  of  a  sudden,  spread  out  my  hands, 
and  cried  in  triumph,  "There !  Mrs  Bowater" ;  she  hardly  shared 
my   rapture. 

She  disapproved  of  the  vast,  blank  "barn  of  a  place,"  with 
its  blackshot  windows  and  cold  chimneys.  The  waste  and 
ruination  of  the  garden  displeased  her  so  much  that  I  grew  a 
little  ashamed  of  my  barbarism. 

"It's  all  going  to  wrack  and  ruin,"  she  exclaimed,  snorting 
at  my  stone  summer-house  no  less  emphatically  than  she  had 
snorted  at  Mrs  Monnerie.  "Not  a  walkable  walk,  nor  the  trace 
of  a  border ;  and  was  there  ever  such  a  miggle-maggle  of  weeds ! 
A  fine  house  in  its  prime,  miss,  but  now,  money  melting  away 
like  butter  in  the  sun." 

"But,"  said  I,  standing  before  her  in  the  lovely  light  amid 
the  dwelling  dewdrops,  "really  and  truly,  Mrs  Bowater,  it  is 
only  going  back  to  its  own  again.  What  you  call  a  miggle- 
maggle  is  what  these  things  were  made  to  be.  They  are  growing 
up  now  by  themselves ;  and  if  you  could  look  as  close  as  I  can, 
you'd  see  they  breathe  only  what  each  can  spare.  They  are 
just  racing  along  to  live  as  wildly  as  they  possibly  can.  It's 
the  tameness,"  I  expostulated,  flinging  back  my  hood,  "that  would 
be  shocking  to  me." 

Mrs  Bowater  looked  down  at  me,  listening  to  this  high- 
piped  recitative  with  an  unusual  inquisitiveness. 

"Well,  that's  as  it  may  be,"  she  retorted,  "but  what  I'm 
asking  is,  Where's  the  young  fellow?  He  don't  seem  to  be  as 
punctual  as  they  were  when  I  was  a  girl." 

My  own  eyes  had  long  been  busy,  but  as  yet  in  vain. 

"I  did  not  come  particularly  to  see  him,"  was  my  airy  reply. 
"Besides,  we  said  no  time — any  fine  day.     Shall  we  sit  down?" 

215 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

With  a  secretive  smile  Mrs  Bowater  spread  a  square  of  water- 
proof sheeting  over  a  flat  stone  that  had  fallen  out  of  the 
coping  of  the  house,  unfolded  a  newspaper  over  the  grass,  and 
we  began  our  breakfast.  Neither  of  us  betrayed  much  appetite 
for  it ;  she,  I  fancy,  having  already  fortified  herself  out  of  her 
brown  teapot  before  leaving  the  house,  and  I  because  of  the 
odour  of  india-rubber  and  newspaper — an  odour  presently  inten- 
sified by  the  moisture  and  the  sun.  Paying  no  heed  to  my 
fastidious  nibblings,  she  munched  on  reflectively,  while  I  grew 
more  and  more  ill  at  ease,  first  because  the  "young  fellow"  was 
almost  visibly  sinking  in  my  old  friend's  esteem,  and  next  because 
her  cloth-booted  foot  lay  within  a  few  inches  of  the  stone  beneath 
which  was  hidden  Fanny's  letter. 

"It'll  do  you  good,  the  sea,"  she  remarked  presently,  after 
sweeping  yet  one  more  comprehensive  glance  around  her,  "and 
we  can  only  hope  Mrs  Monnerie  will  be  as  good  as  her  word. 
A  spot  like  this — trespassing  or  not — is  good  for  neither  man 
nor  beast.  And  when  you  are  young  the  more  human  company 
you  get,  with  proper  supervising,  the  better." 

"Were  you  happy  as  a  girl,  Mrs  Bowater?"  I  inquired  after 
a  pause. 

Our  voices  went  up  and  up  into  the  still,  mild  air.  "Happy 
enough — for  my  own  good,"  she  said,  neatly  screwing  up  her 
remaining  biscuits  in  their  paper  bag.  "In  my  days  children 
were  brought  up.  Taught  to  make  themselves  useful.  I  would 
as  soon  have  lifted  a  hand  against  my  mother  as  answer  her  back." 

"You  mean  she — she  whipped  you?" 

"If  need  be,"  my  landlady  replied  complacently,  folding  her 
thread-gloved  hands  on  her  lap  and  contemplating  the  shiny 
toecaps  of  her  boots.  "She  had  large  hands,  my  mother ;  and 
plenty  of  temper  kept  well  under  control.  What's  more,  if 
life  isn't  a  continual  punishment  for  the  stoopidities  and  wicked- 
ness of  others,  not  to  mention  ourselves,  then  it  must  be  even  a 
darker  story  than  was  ever  told  me." 

"And  was,   Mrs   Bowater,  Mr   Bowater  your — your  first " 

I  looked  steadily  at  a  flower  at  my  foot  in  case  she  might  be 
affected  at  so  intimate  a  question,  and  not  wish  me  to  see  her  face. 

"If  Mr  Bowater  was  not  the  first,"  was  her  easy  reponse,  "he 
may  well  live  to  boast  of  being  the  last.  Which  is  neither  here 
nor  there,  for  we  may  be  sure  he's  enjoying  attentive  nursing. 
216 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Broken  bones  are  soon  mended.  It's  when  things  are  disjointed 
from  the  root  that  the  wrench  comes." 

The  storm-felled  bole  lay  there  beside  ns,  as  if  for  picture 
to  her  parable.  I  began  to  think  rather  more  earnestly  than  I 
had  intended  to  that  morning.  In  my  present  state  of  con- 
science, it  was  never  an  easy  matter  to  decide  whether  Mrs 
Bowater's  comments  on  life  referred  openly  to  things  in  general 
or  covertly  to  me  in  particular.  Plow  fortunate  that  the  scent 
of  Fanny's  notepaper  was  not  potent  enough  to  escape  from  its 
tomb.  And  whether  or  not,  speech  seemed  less  dangerous  than 
silence. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  began  rather  hastily,  "at 
least  to  judge  from  my  own  father  and  mother,  that  a  man 
depends  very  much  on  a  woman.  Men  don't  seem  to  grow 
up  in  the  same  way,  though  I  suppose  they  are  practical  enough 
as  men." 

"If  it  were  one  female,"  was  the  reply,  "there'd  be  less  to 
be  found  fault  with.  That  poor  young  creature  over  there  took 
her  life  for  no  better  reason,  even  though  the  reason  was 
turned  inside  out  as  you  may  say." 

I  met  the  frightful,  louring  stare  of  the  house.  "What  was 
her  name?"  I  whispered — but  into  nothing,  for,  bolt  upright 
as  she  was,  Mrs  Bowater  had  shut  her  eyes,  as  if  in  preparation 
for  a  nap. 

A  thread-like  tangle  of  song  netted  the  air.  We  were,  indeed, 
trespassers.  I  darted  my  glance  this  way  and  that,  in  and  out 
of  the  pale  green  whispering  shadows  in  this  wild  haunt.  Then, 
realizing  by  some  faint  stir  in  my  mind  that  the  stiff,  still, 
shut-away  figure  beside  me  was  only  feigning  to  be  "asleep,  I 
opened  the  rain-warped  covers  of  my  Sense  and  Sensibility,  and 
began  plotting  how  to  be  rid  of  her  for  a  while,  so  that  my  soli- 
tude might  summon  my  stranger,  and  I  might  recover  Fanny's 
letter. 

Then  once  more  I  knew.  Raising  my  eyes,  I  looked  straight 
across  at  him,  scowling  there  beneath  his  stunted  thorn  in  a 
drift  of  (lowers  like  fool's  parsley.  He  was  making  signs,  too, 
with  his  hands.  I  watched  him  pensively,  in  secret  amusement. 
Then  swifter  than  Daphne  into  her  laurel,  instantaneously  he 
vanished,  and  /  became  aware  that  its  black  eyes  were   staring 

217 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

out  from  the  long  face  of  the  motionless  figure  beside  me,  as 
might  an  owl's  into  an  aviary. 

"Did  you  hear  a  bird,  Mrs  Bowater?"  I  inquired  innocently. 

"When  I  was  a  girl,"  said  the  mouth,  "sparrowhawks  were 
a  common  sight,  but  I  never  heard  one  sing." 

"But  isn't  a  sparrowhawk  quite  a  large  bird?" 

"We  must  judge,"  said  Mrs  Bowater,  "not  by  the  size,  but 
the  kind.  Elseways,  miss,  your  old  friend  might  have  been 
found  sleeping,  as  they  say,  at  her  box."  She  pretended  to 
yawn,  gathered  her  legs  under  her,  and  rose  up  and  up.  "I'll 
be  taking  a  little  walk  round.  And  you  shall  tell  your  young 
acquaintance  that  I  mean  him  no  harm,  but  that  I  mean  you 
the  reverse;  and  if  show  himself  he  won't,  well,  here  I  sit  till 
the  Day  of  Judgment." 

An  angry  speech  curled  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  But  the 
simple-faced  flowers  were  slowly  making  obeisance  to  Mrs 
Bowater's  black,  dragging  skirts,  and  when  she  was  nearly  out 
of  sight  I  sallied  out  to  confront  my  stranger. 

His  face  was  black  with  rage  and  contempt.  "That  con- 
taminating scarecrow;  who's  she?"  was  his  greeting.  "The  days 
I  have  waited !" 

The  resentment  that  had  simmered  up  in  me  on  his  behalf 
now  boiled  over  against  him.     I  looked  at  him  in  silence. 

"That  contaminating  scarecrow,  as  you  are  pleased  to  call 
her,  is  the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world.     I  need  no  other." 

"And  I,"  he  said  harshly,  "have  no  friend  in  this  world,  and 
need  you." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "you  have  lost  your  opportunity.  Do  you 
suppose  I  am  a  child — to  be  insulted  and  domineered  over 
only  because  I  am  alone?  Possibly,"  and  my  lips  so  trembled 
that  I  could  hardly  frame  the  words,  "it  is  your  face  I  shall 
see  when  I  think  of  those  windows." 

I  was  speaking  wiselier  than  I  knew.  He  turned  sharply, 
and  by  a  play  of  light  it  seemed  that  at  one  of  them  there  stood 
looking  down  on  us  out  of  the  distance  a  shape  that  so  had 
watched  for  ever,  leering  darkly  out  of  the  void.  And  there 
awoke  in  me  the  sense  of  this  stranger's  extremity  of  solitude, 
of  his  unhappy  disguise,  of  his  animal-like  patience. 

"Why,"   I   said,   "Mrs   Bowater!     You   might    far   rather   be 

thanking  her  for — for " 

218 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Curses  on  her,"  he  clinked,  turning  away.  "There  was  every- 
thing to  tell  you." 

"What  everything?" 

"Call  her  back  now,"  he  muttered  furiously. 

"That,"  I  said  smoothly,  "is  easily  done.  But,  forgive  me, 
I  don't  know  your  name." 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  turf  beneath  me,  mounted  slowly 
up,  my  foot  to  my  head,  and  looked  into  mine.  In  their 
intense  regard  I  seemed  to  be  but  a  bubble  floating  away  into  the 
air.  I  shivered,  and  turned  my  back  on  him,  without  waiting  for 
an  answer.     He  followed  me  as  quietly  as  a  sheep. 

Mrs  Bowater  had  already  come  sauntering  back  to  our  break- 
fast table,  and  with  gaze  impassively  fixed  on  the  horizon,  pre- 
tended not  to  be  aware  of  our  approach. 

I  smiled  back  at  my  companion  as  we  drew  near.  "This, 
Mrs  Bowater,"  said  I,  "is  Mr  Anon.  Would  you  please  present 
him  to  Miss  Thomasina  of  Bedlam?-' 

For  a  moment  or  two  they  stood  facing  one  another,  just 
as  I  have  seen  two  insects  stand — motionless,  regardful,  exchang- 
ing each  other's  presences.  Then,  after  one  lightning  snap  at 
him  from  her  eye,  she  rose  to  my  bait  like  a  fish.  "A  pleasant 
morning,  sir,"  she  remarked  affably,  though  in  her  Bible  voice. 
"My  young  lady  and  I  were  enjoying  the  spring  air." 

Back  to  memory  comes  the  darkness  of  a  theatre,  and  Mrs 
Monnerie  breathing  and  sighing  beside  me,  and  there  on  the 
limelit  green  of  the  stage  lolls  ass-headed  Bottom  the  W'eaver 
cracking  jokes  with  the  Fairies. 

My  (  )beron  addressed  Mrs  Bowater  as  urbanely  as  St  George 
must  have  addressed  the  Dragon — or  any  other  customary  monster. 

He  seemed  to  pass  muster,  none  the  less,  for  she  rose,  patted 
her  sheet,  pushed  forward  her  bonnet  on  to  her  rounded  temples, 
and  bade  him  a  composed  good-morning.  She  would  be  awaiting 
me,  she  announced,  in  an  hour's  time  under  my  beech  tree. 

"I  think,  perhaps,  two,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  said  firmly. 

She  gave  me  a  look — all  our  long  slow  evening  firelit  talks 
together  seemed  to  be  swimming  in  its  smile;  and  withdrew. 

The  air  eddied  into  quiet  again.  The  stretched-out  blue 
of  the  sky  was  as  bland  and  solitary  as  if  a  seraph  sat  dream- 
ing on  its  Eastern  outskirts.  Mr  Anon  and  I  seated  ourselves 
three  or  four  feet  apart,  and  I  watched  the  sidelong  face,  so  del- 

219 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

icately  carved  against  the  green ;  yet  sunken  in  so  sullen  a  stare. 

Standing  up  on  his  feet  against  the  background  of  Mrs 
Bowater's  ink-black  flounces,  with  his  rather  humped  shoulders 
and  straight  hair,  he  had  looked  an  eccentric,  and,  even  to  my 
view,  a  stunted  figure.  Now  the  whole  scene  around  us  seemed 
to  be  sorting  itself  into  a  different  proportion  before  my  eyes. 
He  it  was  who  was  become  the  unit  of  space,  the  yard-stick  of 
the  universe.  The  flowers,  their  roots  glintily  netted  with  spider- 
webs,  nodded  serenely  over  his  long  hands.  A  peacock  butter- 
fly with  folded  colours  sipped  of  the  sunshine  on  a  tuft  nearly 
at  evens  with  his  cheek.  The  very  birds  sang  to  his  size,  and 
every  rift  between  the  woodlands  awaited  the  cuckoo.  Only 
his  clothes  were  grotesque,  but  less  so  than  in  my  parlour  Mr 
Crimble's  skirts,  or  even  Lady  Pollacke's  treacherous  bonnet. 

I  folded  my  white  silk  gloves  into  a  ball.  A  wren  began 
tweeting  in  a  bush  near  by.  "I  am  going  away  soon,"  I  said, 
"to  the  sea." 

The  wren  glided  away  out  of  sight  amongst  its  thorns.  I 
knew  by  his  sudden  stillness  that  this  had  been  unwelcome 
news.     "That  will  be  very  pleasant  for  me,  won't  it?"  I  said. 

"The  sea?"  he  returned  coldly,  with  averted  head.  "Well, 
/  am  bound  still  further." 

The  reply  fretted  me.  I  wanted  bare  facts  just  then.  "Why 
are  you  so  angry?  What  is  your  name?  And  where  do  you 
live?"  It  was  my  turn  to  ask  questions,  and  I  popped  them 
out  as  if  from  a  Little  by  Little. 

And  then,  with  his  queer,  croaking,  yet  captivating  voice, 
he  broke  into  a  long,  low  monologue.  He  gave  me  his  name — 
and  "Mr  Anon"  describes  him  no  worse.  He  waved  his  hand 
vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  house  he  lived  in.  But  instead  of 
apologizing  for  his  ill-temper,  he  accused  me  of  deceiving  and 
humiliating  him ;  of  being,  so  I  gathered,  a  toy  of  my  landlady's, 
of  betraying  and  soiling  myself. 

Why  all  this  wild  stuff  only  seemed  to  flatter  me,  I  cannot 
say.  I  listened  and  laughed,  pressing  flat  with  both  hands 
the  sorry  covers  of  my  book,  and  laughed  also  low  in  my  heart. 

"Oh,  contempt !"  he  cried.     "I  am  used  to  that." 

The  words  curdled  on  his  tongue  as  he  expressed  his  loathing 
of  poor  Mrs  Bowater  and  her  kind — mere  Humanity — that 
ate  and  drank  in  musty  houses  stuck  up  out  of  the  happy  earth 
220 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

like  warts  on  the  skin,  that  battened  on  meat,  stalked  its  puddled 
streets  and  vile,  stifling  towns,  spread  its  rank  odours  on  the 
air,  increased  and  multiplied.  Monstrous  in  shape,  automatic, 
blinded  by  hain't,  abandoned  by  instinct,  monkey-like,  degraded! 

What  an  unjust  tirade!  He  barked  it  all  out  at  me  as  if 
the  blame  were  mine;  as  if  /  had  nibbled  the  Apple.  I  turned 
my  face  away,  smiling,  but  listening.  Did  I  realize,  he  asked 
me,  what  a  divine  fortune  it  was  to  be  so  little,  and  in  this  to 
be  All.  On  and  on  he  raved :  I  breathed  air  "a  dewdrop  could 
chill";  I  was  as  near  lovely  naught  made  visible  as  the  passing 
of  a  flower;  the  mere  mattering  of  a  dream.  And  when  I  died 
my  body  would  be  but  a  perishing  flake  of  manna,  and  my 
bones  .  .  . 

"Yes,  a  wren's  picking,"  I  rudely  interrupted.  "And  what 
of  my  soul,  please?  Why,  you  talk  like — like  a  poet.  Besides, 
you  tell  me  nothing  new.  I  was  thinking  all  that  and  more  on 
my  way  here  with  my  landlady.  What  has  size  to  do  with  it? 
Why,  when  I  thought  of  my  mother  after  she  was  dead,  and 
peered  down  in  the  place  of  my  imagination  into  her  grave, 
I  saw  her  spirit — young,  younger  than  I,  and  bodiless,  and 
infinitely  more  beautiful  even  than  she  had  been  in  my  dreams, 
floating  up  out  of  it,  free,  sweet,  and  happy,  like  a  flame — though 
shadowy.  Besides,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  pitying  men 
and  women.  They  seem  to  fly  to  one  another  for  company; 
and  half  their  comfort  is  in  their  numbers." 

Never  in  all  my  life  had  I  put  my  thoughts  into  words  like 
this ;  and  he — a  stranger. 

There  fell  a  silence  between  us.  The  natural  quietude  of 
the  garden  was  softly  settling  down  and  down  like  infinitesimal 
grains  of  sand  in  a  pool  of  water.  It  had  forgotten  that  humans 
were  harbouring  in  its  solitude.  And  still  he  maintained  that 
his  words  were  not  untrue,  that  he  knew  mankind  better  than 
I,  that  to  fall  into  their  ways  and  follow  their  opinions  and 
strivings  was  to  deafen  my  ears,  and  seal  up  my  eyes,  and  lose 
my  very  self.     "The  Self  everywhere,"  he  said. 

And  he  told  me,  whether  in  time  or  space  I  know  not,  of  a 
country  whose  people  were  of  my  stature  and  slenderness.  This 
was  a  land,  he  said,  walled  in  by  enormous,  ice-capped  mountains 
couching  the  furnace  of  the  rising  sun,  and  yet  set  at  the  ocean's 
edge.     Its  sand-dunes  ring  like  dulcimers  in  the  heat.     Its  valleys 

221 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  swift  rivers  were  of  a  green  so  pale  and  vivid  and  so 
flower-encrusted  that  an  English — even  a  Kentish — spring  is  but 
a  coarse  and  rustic  prettiness  by  comparison.  Vine  and  orange 
and  trees  of  outlandish  names  gave  their  fruits  there ;  yet 
there  also  willows  swept  the  winds,  and  palms  spiked  the  blue 
with  their  fans,  and  the  cactus  flourished  with  the  tamarisk. 
Geese,  of  dark  green  and  snow,  were  on  its  inland  waters,  and 
a  bird  clocked  the  hours  of  the  night,  and  the  conformation 
of  its  stars  would  be  strange  to  my  eyes.  And  such  was  the 
lowliness  and  simplicity  of  this  people's  habitations  that  the 
most  powerful  sea-glass,  turned  upon  and  searching  their  secret 
haunts  from  a  ship  becalmed  on  the  ocean,  would  spy  out  nothing 
— nothing  there,  only  world  wilderness  of  snow-dazzling  moun- 
tain-top and  green  valley,  ravine,  and  condor,  and  what  might 
just  be  Nature's  small  ingenuities — mounds  and  traceries.  Yet 
within  all  was  quiet  loveliness,  feet  light  as  goldfinches',  silks 
fine  as  gossamer,  voices  as  of  a  watery  beading  of  silence.  And 
their  life  being  all  happiness  they  have  no  name  for  their  God. 
And  it  seems — according  to  Mr  Anon's  account  of  it — that 
such  was  the  ancient  history  of  the  world,  that  Man  was  so 
once,  but  had  swollen  to  his  present  shape,  of  which  he  had 
lost  the  true  spring  and  mastery,  and  had  sunk  deeper  and 
deeper  into  a  kind  of  oblivion  of  the  mind,  suffocating  his  past, 
and  now  all  but  insane  with  pride  in  his  own  monstrosities. 

All  this  my  new  friend  (and  yet  not  so  very  new,  it  seemed) 
— all  this  he  poured  out  to  me  in  the  garden,  though  I  can  only 
faintly  recall  his  actual  words,  as  if,  like  Moses,  I  had  smitten 
the  rock.  And  I  listened  weariedly,  with  little  hope  of  under- 
standing him,  and  with  the  suspicion  that  it  was  nothing  but 
a  Tom  o'  Bedlam's  dream  he  was  recounting.  Yet,  as  if  in 
disproof  of  my  own  incredulity,  there  sat  I ;  and  over  the  trees 
yonder  stood  Mrs  Bowater's  ugly  little  brick  house ;  and  beyond 
that,  the  stony,  tapering  spire  of  St  Peter's,  the  High  Street. 
And  I  looked  at  him  without  any  affection  in  my  thoughts, 
and  wished  fretfully  to  be  gone.  What  use  to  be  lulled  with 
fantastic  pictures  of  Paradise  when  I  might  have  died  of 
fear  and  hatred  on  Mrs  Stocks's  doorstep ;  when  everything  I 
said  was  "'touching,   touching"? 

"Well,"  I  mockingly  interposed  at  last,  "the  farthing  dip's 
guttering.     And  what  if  it's  all  true,  and  there  is  such  a  place, 

222 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

what  then?  How  am  I  going  to  get  there,  pray?  Would  you 
like  to  mummy  me  and  shut  me  up  in  a  box  and  carry  me  there, 
as  they  used  to  in  Basman?  Years  and  years  ago  my  father 
told  me  of  the  pygmy  men  and  horses — the  same  size  as  yours, 
I  suppose — who  lived  in  caves  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  But  I 
doubt  if  I  believed  in  them  much,  even  then.  I  am  not  so 
ignorant  as  all  that." 

The  life  died  out  of  his  face,  just  as,  because  of  a  cloud 
carried  up  into  the  sky,  the  sunlight  at  that  moment  fled  from 
\\'anderslore.  He  coughed,  leaning  on  his  hands,  and  looked 
in  a  scared,  empty,  hunted  fashion  to  right  and  left.  "Only 
that  you  might  stay,"  he  scarcely  whispered.     "...  I  love  you." 

Instinctively    I    drew    away,    lips    dry,   ,and    heart    numbly, 
heavily   beating.     An    influence    more    secret    than    the    shadow 
of  a  cloud  had  suddenly  chilled  and  darkened  the  garden  and 
robbed  it  of  its  beauty.     I  shrank  into  myself,  cold  and  awkward, 
and  did  not  dare  even  to  glance  at  my  companion. 

"A  fine  thing,"  was  all  I  found  to  reply,  "for  a  toy,  as  you 
call  me.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Miserable  enough  that  memory  is  when  I  think  of  what 
came  after,  for  now  my  only  dread  was  that  he  might  really 
be  out  of  his  wits,  and  might  make  my  beloved,  solitary  garden 
for  ever  hateful  to  me.     I  drew  close  my  cape,  and  lifted  my  book. 

"There  is  a  private  letter  of  mine  hidden  under  that  stone," 
I  said  coldly.  "Will  you  please  be  so  good  as  to  fetch  it  out  for 
me?     And  you  are  never,  never  to  say  that  again." 

The  poor  thing  looked  so  desperately  ill  and  forsaken  with 
his  humped  shoulders— and  that  fine,  fantastic  story  still  ringing 
in  my  ears ! — that  a  kind  of  sadness  came  over  me,  and  I  hid 
my   face  in  my  hands. 

"The  letter  is  not  there,"  said  his  voice. 

I  drew  my  fingers  from  my  face,  and  glared  at  him  from 
between  them ;  then  scrambled  to  my  feet.  Out  swam  the 
sun  again,  drenching  all  around  us  with  its  light  and  heat. 

"Next  time  I  come,"  I  shrilled  at  him,  "the  letter  will  be 
there.  The  thief  will  have  put  it  back  again!  Oh,  how  unhappy 
you  have  made  me !" 


223 


Chapter  Twenty-Seven 

I  STUMBLED  off,  feeling  smaller  and  smaller  as  I  went,  more 
and  more  ridiculous  and  insignificant,  as  indeed  I  must  have 
appeared;  for  distance  can  hardly  lend  enchantment  to  any 
view  of  me.  Not  one  single  look  did  I  cast  behind ;  but  now  that 
my  feelings  began  to  quiet  down,  I  began  also  to  think.  And 
a  pretty  muddle  of  mind  it  was.  What  had  enraged  and  em- 
bittered me  so?  If  only  I  had  remained  calm.  Was  it  that 
my  pride,  my  vanity,  had  in  some  vague  fashion  been  a  punish- 
ment of  him  for  Fanny's  unkindness  to  me? 

"But  he  stole,  he  stole  my  letter,''  I  said  aloud,  stamping 
my  foot  on  a  budding  violet;  and — there  was  Mrs  Bowater. 
Evidently  she  had  been  watching  my  approach,  and  now  smiled 
benignly. 

"Why,  you  are  quite  out  of  breath,  miss;  and  your  cheeks! 
...  I  hope  you  haven't  been  having  words.  A  better-spoken 
young  fellow  than  I  had  fancied ;  and  I'm  sure  I  ask  his  pardon 
for   the   'gentleman.'  " 

"Ach,"  I  swept  up  at  my  beech-tree,  now  cautiously  un- 
sheathing its  first  green  buds  in  the  lower  branches,  "I  think 
he  must  be  light  in  his  head.'' 

"And  that  often  comes,"  replied  Mrs  Bowater,  with  undis- 
guised bonhomie,  "from  being  heavy  at  the  heart.  Why,  miss, 
he  may  be  a  young  nobleman  in  disguise.  There's  unlikelier 
things  even  than  that,  to  judge  from  that  trash  of  Fanny's. 
While,  as  for  fish  in  the  sea— it's  sometimes  wise  to  be  contented 
with    what    we    can    catch." 

Who  had  been  talking  to  me  about  fish  in  the  sea — quite 
lately?  I  thought  contemptuously  of  Pollie  and  the  Dream  Book. 
"I  am  sorry,"'  I  replied,  nose  in  air,  "but  I  cannot  follow 
the  allusion." 

The  charge  of  vulgarity  was  the  very  last,  I  think,  which 
Mrs  Bowater  would  have  lifted  a  finger  to  refute.  My  cheeks 
224 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


flamed  hotter  to  know  that  she  was  quietly  smiling  up  there. 
We  walked  on  in  silence. 

(That  night  I  could  not  sleep.  I  was  afraid.  Life  was  blacken- 
ing my  mind  like  the  mould  of  a  graveyard.  I  could  think 
of  nothing  but  one  face,  one  voice — that  scorn  and  longing, 
thought  and  fantasy.  What  if  he  did  love  me  a  little?  1  might 
at  least  have  been  kind  to  him.  Had  I  so  many  friends  that 
I  could  afford  to  be  harsh  and  ungrateful?  How  dreadfully 
ill  he  had  looked  when  I  scoffed  at  him.  And  now  what  might 
not  have  happened  to  him?  I  seemed  lost  to  myself.  No  wonder 
Fanny  .  .  .  My  body  grew  cold  at  a  thought ;  the  palms  of  my 
hands  began  to  ache. 

Half-stifled,  I  leapt  out  of  bed,  and  without  the  least  notion 
of  what  I  was  doing-,  hastily  dressed  myself,  and  fled  out  into 
the  night.  I  must  find  him,  talk  to  him.  plead  with  him,  before 
it  was  too  late.  And  in  the  trickling  starlight,  pressed  against 
my  own  gatepost — there  he   was. 

"Oh,"  I  whispered  at  him  in  a  fever  of  relief  and  shame 
and  apprehensivcness,  "what  are  you  doing  here?  You  must 
go  away  at  once,  at  once.  I  forgive  you.  Yes,  yes;  I  forgive 
you.  But — at  once.  Keep  the  letter  for  me  till  I  come  again." 
His  hand  was  wet  with  the  dew.  "Oh,  and  never  say  it  again. 
Please,  please,  if  you  care  for  me  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  never, 
never  say  what  you  did  again."  I  poured  out  the  heedless 
words  in  the  sweet-scented  quiet  of  midnight.  "Now — now 
go*';   I  entreated.     "And  indeed,  indeed  I  am  your   friend." 

The  dark  eyes  shone  quietly  close  to  mine.  He  sighed,  tie 
lifted  my  fingers,  and  put  them  to  my  breast  again.  He  whispered 
unintelligible  words  between  us,  and  was  gone.  No  more  stars 
for  me  that  night.     I  slept  sound  until  long  after  dawn.  .  .  . 

Softly  as  thistledown  the  days  floated  into  eternity;  yet 
they  were  days  of  expectation  and  action.  April  was  her  fickle 
self;  not  so  Mrs  Monnerie.  Her  letter  to  Mrs  Bowater  must 
have  been  a  marvel  of  tact.  Apartments  had  been  engaged  for 
us  at  a  little  watering-place  in  Dorsetshire,  called  Lyme  Regis. 
Mrs  Bowater  and  I  were  to  spend  at  least  a  fortnight  there 
alone  together,  and  after  our  return  Mrs  Monnerie  herself  was 
to  pay  me  a  visit,  and  see  with  her  own  eyes  if  her  prescription 
had  been  successful.     After  that,  perhaps,  if  I  were  so  inclined, 

225 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

and  my  landlady  agreed  with  Mr  Pellew  that  it  would  be  good 
for  me,  I  might  spend  a  week  or  two  with  her  in  London.  What 
a  twist  of  the  kaleidoscope.  I  had  sown  never  a  pinch  of  seed, 
yet  here  was  everything  laughing  and  blossoming  around  me, 
like  the  wilderness  in  Isaiah. 

Indeed  my  own  looking-glass  told  me  how  wan  and  languish- 
ing a  Miss  M.  was  pining  for  change  of  scene  and  air.  She 
rejoiced  that  Fanny  was  enjoying  herself,  rejoiced  that  she 
was  going  to  enjoy  herself  too.  I  searched  Mrs  Bowater's 
library  for  views  of  the  sea,  but  without  much  reward.  So  I 
read  over  Mr  Bowater's  Captain  Maury — on  the  winds  and 
monsoons  and  tide-rips  and  hurricanes,  freshened  up  my  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  dreamed  of  the  Angels  with  the  Vials.  In  the 
midst  of  my  packing  (and  I  spread  it  out  for  sheer  amusement's 
sake),  Mr  Crimble  called  again.  He  looked  nervous,  gloomy, 
and  hollow-eyed. 

I  was  fast  becoming  a  mistress  in  affairs  of  the  sensibilities. 
Yet,  when,  kneeling  over  my  open  trunk,  I  heard  him  in  the 
porch,  I  mimicked  Fanny's  "Dash!"  and  wished  to  goodness 
he  had  postponed  his  visit  until  only  echo  could  have  answered 
his  knock.  It  fretted  me  to  be  bothered  with  him.  And  now? 
What  would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  say  I  had  done  my  best 
and  utmost  to  help  him  when  he  wanted  it?  Here  is  a  riddle 
I  can  find  no  answer  to,  however  long  I  live:  How  is  it  that 
our  eyes  cannot  foresee,  our  very  hearts  cannot  forefeel,  the 
future?  And  how  should  we  act  if  that  future  were  plain  before 
us?  Yet,  even  then,  what  could  I  have  said  to  him  to  comfort 
him?  Really  and  truly  I  had  no  candle  with  which  to  see  into 
that  dark  mind. 

In  actual  fact  my  task  was  difficult  and  delicate  enough.  In 
spite  of  her  vow  not  to  write  again,  yet  another  letter  had  mean- 
while come  from  Fanny.  If  Mr  Crimble's  had  afforded  "a  ray  of 
hope,"  this  had  shut  it  clean  away.  It  was  full  of  temporizings, 
wheedlings,  evasions — and  brimming  over  with  Fanny. 

It  suggested,  too,  that  Mrs  Bowater  must  have  misread  the 
name  of  her  holiday  place.  The  half-legible  printing  of  the 
postmark  on  the  envelope — fortunately  I  had  intercepted  the 
postman — did  not  even  begin  with  an  M.  And  no  address 
was  given  within.  I  was  to  tell  Mr  Crimble  that  Fanny  was 
226 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

over-tired  and  depressed  by   the  term's   work,   that  she  simply 
couldn't  set  her  "weary  mind"  to  anything,  and  as  for  decisions  : — 

"He  seems  to  think  only  of  himself.  You  couldn't  helieve, 
Midgetina,  what  nonsense  the  man  talks.  He  can't  see  that  all 
poor  Fanny's  future  is  at  stake,  hody  and  soul.  Tell  him  if  he 
wants  her  to  smile,  he  must  sit  in  patience  on  a  pedestal,  and  smile 
too.  One  simply  can't  trust  the  poor  creature  with  cold,  sober  facts. 
His  mother,  now — why,  I  could  read  it  in  your  own  polite  little 
description  of  her  at  your  Grand  Reception — she  smiles  and  smiles. 
So  did  the  Cheshire  Cat. 

"  'But  oh,  dear  Fanny,  time  and  your  own  true  self,  God  helping, 
would  win  her  over.'  So  writes  H.  C.  That's  candid  enough, 
if  you  look  into  it;  but  it  isn't  sense.  Once  hostile,  old  ladies  are 
not  won  over.  They  don't  care  much  for  mind  in  the  young.  Any- 
how, one  look  at  me  was  enough  for  her — and  it  was  followed  by 
a  sharp  little  peer  at  poor  Harold  !  She  guessed.  So  you  see,  my 
dear,  even  for  youthful  things,  like  you  and  me,  time  gathers  roses 
a  jolly  sight  faster  than  we  can,  and  it  would  have  to  be  the  fait 
accompli,  before  a  word  is  breathed  to  her.  That  is,  if  I  could  take 
a  deep  breath  and  say,  Yes. 

"But  I  can't.  I  ask  you :  Can  you  see  Fanny  Bowater  a  Right 
Reverendissima?  No,  nor  can  I.  And  not  even  gaiters  or  an 
apron  here  and  now  would  settle  the  question  off-hand.  Why  I 
confide  all  this  in  you  (why,  for  that  matter,  it  has  all  been  confided, 
in  me),  I  know  not.  You  want  nothing,  and  if  you  did,  you  wouldn't 
want  it  long.  Now,  would  you?  Perhaps  that  is  the  secret.  But 
Fanny  wants  a  good  deal.  She  cannot  even  guess  how  much.  So, 
while  Miss  Stebbings  and  Beechwood  Hill  for  ever  and  ever  would 
be  hell  before  purgatory,  H.  C.  and  St  Peter's  would  be  merely  the 
same  thing,  with  the  fires  out.  And  I  am  quite  sure  that,  given  a 
chance,  heaven  is  our  home. 

"Oh,  Midgetina,  I  listen  to  all  this;  mumbling  my  heart  like  a 
dog  a  bone.  What  the  devil  lias  it  got  to  do  with  vie,  T  ask  myself? 
Who  set  the  infernal  trap?  If  only  I  could  stop  thinking  and 
mocking  and  find  some  one — not  'to  love  me'  (between  ourselves, 
there  are  far  too  many  of  them  already),  but  capable  of  making  me 
love  him.  They  say  a  woman  can't  be  driven.  I  disagree.  She 
can  be  driven — mad.  And  apart  from  that,  though  twenty  men 
only  succeed  in  giving  me  hydrophobia,  one  could  persuade  me  to 
drink,  if  only  his  name  was   Mr  Right,  as  mother  succinctly  puts  it. 

"But  first  and  last,  I  am  having  a  real,  if  not  a  particularly  saga- 
cious, holiday,  and  can  take  care  of  myself.     And  next  and  last,  play, 

227 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  beseech  you,  the  tiny  good  Samaritan  between  me  and  poor,  plod- 
ding, blinded  H.  C. — even  if  he  does  eventually  have  to  go  on  to 
Jericho. 

"And  I  shall  ever  remain,  your  most  afrec. — F." 

How  all  this  baffled  me.  I  tried,  but  dismally  failed,  to 
pour  a  trickle  of  wine  and  oil  into  Mr  Crimble's  wounded  heart, 
for  his  sake  and  for  mine,  not  for  Fanny's,  for  I  knew  in  myself 
that  his  "Jericho''  was  already  within  view. 

"I  don't  understand  her;  I  don't  understand  her,"  he  kept 
repeating,  crushing  his  soft  hat  in  his  small,  square  hands.  "I 
cannot  reach  her;  I  am  not  in  touch  with  her." 

Out  of  the  fount  of  my  womanly  wisdom  I  reminded  him 
how  young  she  was,  how  clever,  and  how  much  flattered. 

"You  know,  then,  there  are — others  ?"  he  gulped,  darkly  meeting 
me. 

"That,  surely,  is  what  makes  her  so  precious,"  I  falsely  in- 
sinuated. 

He  gazed  at  me,  his  eyes  like  an  immense,  empty  shop- 
window.     "That  thought  puts I  can't,"  and  he  twisted  his 

head  on  his  shoulders  as  if  shadows  were  around  him;  "I 
can't  bear  to  think  of  her  and — with — others.  It  unbalances 
me.  But  how  can  you  understand?  ...  A  sealed  book.  Last 
night  I  sat  at  my  window.  It  was  raining.  I  know  not  the 
hour:  and  Spring!"  He  clutched  at  his  knees,  stooping  for- 
ward. "I  repudiated  myself,  thrust  myself  out.  Oh,  believe 
me,  we  are  not  alone.  And  there  and  then  I  resolved  to  lay 
the  whole  matter  before" — his  glance  groped  towards  the  door 
— "before,  in  fact,  her  mother.  She  is  a  woman  of  sagacity,  of 
proper  feeling  in  her  station,   though  how  she  came  to  be  the 

mother  of But  that's  neither  here  nor  there.     We  mustn't 

probe.  Probably  she  thinks — but  what  use  to  consider  it?  One 
word  to  her — and  Fanny  would  be  lost  to  me  for  ever."  For 
a  moment  it  seemed  his  eyes  closed  on  me.  "How  can  I 
bring  myself  to  speak  of  it?"  a  remote  voice  murmured  from 
beneath  them. 

I  looked  at  the  figure  seated  there  in  its  long  black  coat; 
and  far  away  in  my  mind  whistled  an  ecstatic  bird — "The  sea ! 
the  sea!     You  are  going  away — out,  out  of  all  this." 

So,  too,  was  Mr  Crimble,  if  only  I  had  known  it.  It  was  my 
228 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

weak  and  cowardly  acquiescence  in  Fanny's  deceits  that  v 
speeding  him  on  his  dreadful  journey.  None  the  less,  a  wretched 
heartless  impatience  fretted  me  at  being  thus  helplessly  hemmed 
in  by  my  fellow  creatures.  How  clumsily  they  groped  on. 
Why  couldn't  they  be  happy  in  just  living  free  from  the  clouds 
and  trammels  of  each  other  and  of  themselves?  The  selfish 
helplessness  of  it  all.  It  was,  indeed,  as  though  the  strange 
fires  which  Fanny  had  burnt  me  in — which  any  sudden  thought 
of  her  could  still  fan  into  a  flickering  blaze — had  utterly  died 
down.  Whether  or  not,  I  was  hardened;  a  poor  little  earthen- 
ware pot  fresh  from  the  furnace.  And  with  what  elixir  was  it 
brimmed. 

I  rose  from  my  chair,  walked  away  from  my  visitor,  and 
peered  through  my  muslin  curtains  at  the  green  and  shine  and 
blue.  A  nursemaid  was  lagging  along  with  a  sleeping  infant 
— its  mild  face  to  the  sky — in  a  perambulator.  A  faint  drift 
of  dandelions  showed  in  the  stretching  meadow.  Kent's  blue  hems 
lay  calm;  my  thoughts  drew  far  away. 

"Mr  Crimble,"  I  cried  in  a  low  voice :  "is  she  worth  all  our 
care  for  her?" 

"'Our' — 'our'?"'  he  expostulated. 

"Mine,  then.  When  I  gave  her,  just  to  be  friends,  because 
— because  I  loved  her,  a  little  ivory  box,  nothing  of  any  value, 
of  course,  but  which  I  have  loved  and  treasured  since  childhood, 
she  left  it  without  a  thought.  It's  in  my  wardrobe  drawer 
— shall  I  show  it  to  you?  I  say  it  was  nothing  in  itself;  but 
what  I  mean  is  that  she  just  makes  use  of  me,  and  with  far 
less  generosity  than — than  other  people  do.  Her  eyes,  her 
voice,  when  she  moves  her  hand,  turns  her  head,  looks  back 
— oh,  I  know!  But,''  and  I  turned  on  him  in  the  light,  "does 
it  mean  anything?  Let  us  just  help  her  all  we  can,  and — keep 
away." 

It  was  a  treachery  past  all  forgiveness :  I  see  that  now. 
If  only  I  had  said,  "Love  on,  love  on:  ask  nothing."  But  I  did 
not  say  it.  A  contempt  of  all  this  slow  folly  was  in  my  brain  that 
afternoon.  Why  couldn't  the  black  cowering  creature  take  him- 
self off?  What  concern  of  mine  was  his  sick,  sheepish  look? 
What  particle  of  a  fig  did  he  care  for  Me?  Had  he  lifted  a  little 
finger  when  I  myself  bitterly  needed  it?  I  seemed  to  be  strug- 
gling in  a  net  of  hatred. 

229 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

He  raised  himself  in  his  chair,  his  spectacles  still  fixed  on 
me;  as  if  some  foul  insect  had  erected  its  blunt  head  at  him. 

"Then  you  are  against  her  too,"  he  uttered,  under  his  breath. 
"I  might  have  known  it,  I  might  have  known  it.     1  am  a  lost 


man." 


It  was  pitiful.  "Lost  fiddlesticks!"  I  snapped  back  at  him, 
with  bared  teeth.  "I  wouldn't — I've  never  harmed  a  fly.  Who, 
I  should  like  to  know,  came  to  my  help  when  ...  ?"  But  I 
choked  down  the  words.  Silence  fell  between  us.  The  idiot 
clock  chimed  five.  He  turned  his  face  away  to  conceal  the 
aversion  that  had  suddenly  overwhelmed  him  at  sight  of  me. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow,  low  voice,  with  his  old  wooden, 
artificial  dignity.  "There's  nothing  more  to  say.  I  can  only 
thank   you,   and   be   gone.     I    had    not   realized.     You   misjudge 

her.     You  haven't  the How  could  it  be  expected?     But  there ! 

thinking's   impossible." 

How  often  had  I  seen  my  poor  father  in  his  last  heavy 
days  draw  his  hand  across  his  eyes  like  that?  Already  my 
fickle  mind  was  struggling  to  find  words  with  which  to  retract, 
to  explain  away  that  venomous  outbreak.  But  I  let  him  go. 
The  stooping,  hatted  figure  hastened  past  my  window ;  and  I 
was  never  to  see  him  again. 


230 


Chapter  Twenty-Eight 


Y 


IT,  in  spite  of  misgivings,  no  very  dark  foreboding  com- 
panioned me  that  evening.  With  infinite  labour  I  concocted 
two  letters : — 


"Deak  Mr  Crimble, — I  regret  my  words  this  afternoon.  Bitterly. 
Indeed  I  do.  But  still  truth  is  important,  isn't  it?  One  we  know 
hasn't  been  too  kind  to  either  of  us.  I  still  say  that.  And  if  it 
seems  inconsiderate,  please  remember  Shakespeare's  lines  about  the 
beetle  (which  I  came  across  in  a  Birthday  Book  the  other  day) — a 
creature  I  detest.  Besides,  we  can  return  good  for  evil — I  can't 
help  this  sounding  like  hypocrisy — even  though  it  is  an  extremely 
tiring  exchange.  I  feel  small  enough  just  now,  but  would  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  that  would  help  in  the  way  we  both  want.  I  hope 
that  you  will  believe  this  and  that  you  will  forgive  my  miserable 
tongue.     Believe  me,  ever  yours  sincerely, — M.  M." 

My  second  letter  was  addressed  to  Fanny's  school,  "%  Miss 
Stebbings" : — 

"Dear  Fanny, — He  came  again  to-day  and  looks  like  a  corpse. 
I  can  do  no  more.  You  must  know  how  utterly  miserable  you  are 
making  him;  that  I  can't,  and  won't,  go  on  being  so  doublefaced. 
I  don't  call  that  being  the  good  Samaritan.  Throw  the  stone  one 
way  or  the  other,  however  many  birds  it  may  kill.  That's  the 
bravest  thing  to  do.  A  horrid  boy  T  knew  as  a  child  once  aimed 
at  a  jay  and  killed — a  wren.  Well,  there's  only  one  wren  that  I 
know  of — your   M. 

"PS. — I  hope  this  doesn't  sound  an  angry  letter.  I  thought  only 
the  other  day  how  difficult  it  must  be  being  as  fascinating  as  you 
are.  And,  of  course,  we  are  what  we  are.  aren't  we,  and  cannot, 
T  suppose,  help  acting  like  that?  You  can't  think  how  he  looked, 
and  talked.  Besides,  I  am  sure  you  will  enjoy  your  holiday  much 
more  when  you  have  made  up  your  mind.  Oh,  Fanny.  I  can't  say 
what's  in  mine.  Every  day  there's  something  else  to  dread.  And 
all  that  T  do  seems  only  to  make  things  worse.  Do  write:  and, 
though,  of  course,  it  isn't  my  affair,  do  have  a  'sagacious'  holiday, 


too." 


231 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Mrs  Bowater  almost  squinted  at  my  two  small  envelopes 
when  she  licked  the  stamps  for  me.  "We  can  only  hope,"  was 
her  one  remark,  "that  when  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  are  opened, 
they'll  excuse  some  of  the  letters  we  reach  ourselves  to  write." 
But  I  did  not  ask  her  to  explain. 

Lyme  Regis  was  but  a  few  days  distant  when,  not  for  the 
first  time  since  our  meeting  at  Mrs  Bowater's  gatepost,  I  set 
off  to  meet  Mr  Anon — this  time  to  share  with  him  my  wonderful 
news.  When  showers  drifted  across  the  sun-shafted  skv  we  took 
refuge  under  the  shelter  of  the  garden-house.  As  soon  as  the 
hot  beams  set  the  raindrops  smouldering,  so  that  every  bush 
was  hung  with  coloured  lights,  we  returned  to  my  smoking 
stone.  And  we  watched  a  rainbow  arch  and  fade  in  the  windy 
blue. 

He  was  gloomy  at  first ;  grudged  me,  I  think,  every  moment 
that  was  to  be  mine  at  Lyme  Regis.  So  I  tempted  him  into 
talking  about  the  books  he  had  read ;  and  about  his  childhood 
— far  from  as  happy  as  mine.  It  hurt  me  to  hear  him  speak 
of  his  mother.  Then  I  asked  him  small  questions  about  that 
wonderful  country  he  had  told  me  of,  which,  whether  it  had 
any  real  existence  or  not,  filled  me  with  delight  as  he  painted 
it  in  his  imagination.  He  was  doing  his  best  to  keep  his  word 
to  me,  and  I  to  keep  our  talk  from  becoming  personal. 

If  I  would  trust  myself  to  him,  friend  to  friend — he  suddenly 
broke  out  in  a  thick,  low  voice,  when  I  least  expected  it — the 
whole  world  was  open  to  us ;  and  he  knew  the  way. 

"What  way?"  said  I.  "And  how  about  poor  Mrs  Bowater? 
How  strange  you  are.     Where  do  you  live?     May  I  know?" 

There  was  an  old  farm-house,  he  told  me,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  park,  and  near  it  a  few  cottages — at  the  far  end  of  Loose 
Lane.  He  lodged  in  one  of  these.  Against  my  wiser  inclinations 
he  persuaded  me  to  set  off  thither  at  once  and  see  the  farm  for 
myself. 

On  the  further  side  of  Wanderslore,  sprouting  their  pallid  green 
Erondlets  like  beads  at  the  very  tips  of  their  black,  were  more 
yews  than  beeches.  We  loitered  on,  along  the  neglected  bridle- 
path. Cuckoos  were  now  in  the  woods,  and  we  talked  and 
talked,  as  if  their  voices  alone  were  not  seductive  enough  to 
enchant  us  onwards.  Sometimes  I  spelled  out  incantations  in 
the  water;  and  sometimes  I  looked  out  happily  across  the  wet, 
232 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

wayside  flowers;  and  sometimes  a  robin  llittered  out  to  observe 
the  intruders.  How  was  it  that  human  company  so  often  made 
me  uneasy  and  self-conscious,  and  nature's  always  brought  peace? 

"Now,  you  said,''  I  began  again,  "that  they  have  a  God, 
and  that  they  are  so  simple  lie  hasn't  a  name.  What  did  you 
mean  by  that?  There  can't  he  one  God  for  the  common-sized, 
and  one  for — for  me ;  now,  can  there  ?  My  mother  never  taught 
me  that;  and  I  have  thought  for  myself.''     Indeed  I  had. 

"  'God'!"  he  cried;  "why,  what  is  all  this?'' 

All  this  at  that  moment  was  a  clearing  in  the  woods,  softly 
shimmering  with  a  misty,  transparent  green,  in  whose  sun- 
beams a  thousand  flies  darted  and  zigzagged  like  motes  of 
light,  and  the  year's  fir>t  butterflies  fluttered  and  languished. 

"But  if  I  speak,''  I  said,  "listen,  now,  my  voice  is  just  swal- 
lowed up.  Out  of  just  a  something  it  faints  into  a  nothing 
— dies.  No,  no;"  (I  suppose  I  was  arguing  only  to  draw  him 
out),  "all  this  cares  no  more  for  me  than — than  a  looking-glass. 
Yet  it  is  mine.  Can  you  see  Jesus  Christ  in  these  woods?  Do 
you  believe  we  are  sinners  and  that  He  came  to  save  us?  I 
do.  But  I  can  see  Him  only  as  a  little  boy,  you  know,  smiling, 
crystal,  intangible :  and  yet  1  do  not  like  children  much." 

He  paused  and  stared  at  me  fixedly.     "My  size?"  he  coughed. 

"Oh,  size,"  I  exclaimed,  "how  you  harp  on  that!"-— as  if  / 
never  had.  "Did  you  not  say  yourself  that  the  smaller  the 
body  is,  the  happier  the  ghost  in  it?     Bodies,  indeed!" 

He  plunged  on,  hands  in  pockets,  frowning,  clumsy.  And 
up  there  in  the  north-west  a  huge  cloud  poured  its  reflected  lights 
on  his  strange  face.  Inwardly — with  all  my  wits  in  a  pleasant 
scatter — I  laughed;  and  outwardly  (all  but)  danced.  Solemnly 
taking  me  at  my  word,  and  as  if  he  were  reading  out  of  one  of 
his  dry  old  books,  he  began  to  tell  me  his  views  about  religion, 
and  about  what  we  are,  qualities,  consciousness,  ideas,  and  that 
kind  of  thing.  As  if  you  could  be  anything  at  any  moment  but 
just  that  moment's  whole  self.  At  least,  so  it  seemed  then : 
I  was  happy.  But  since  in  his  earnestness  his  voice  became 
almost  as  false  to  itself  as  was  Mr  Crimble's  when  he  had  con- 
versed with  me  about  Hell,  my  eyes  stole  my  ears  from  him, 
and  only  a  few  scattered  sentences  reached  my  mind. 

Nevertheless  I  enjoyed  hearing  him  talk,  and  encouraged 
him  with  bits  of  questions  and  exclamations.     Did  he  believe, 

233 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

perhaps,  in  the  pagan  Gods? — Mars  and  all  that?  Was  there, 
even  at  this  very  moment,  cramped  up  among  the  moss  and 
the  roots,  a  crazy,  brutal  Pan  in  the  woods  ?  And  those  delicious 
Nymphs  and  Naiads !  What  would  he  do  if  one  beckoned  to 
him? — or  Pan's  pipes  began  wheedling? 

"Nymphs !"  he  grunted,  "aren't  you " 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  coming  to  a  pause  beside  a  holly-tree  so  marvel- 
lously sparkling  with  waterdrops  on  every  curved  spine  of  it 
that  it  took  my  breath  away:  "let's  talk  no  more  thoughts. 
They  are  only  mice  gnawing.     I  can  hear  them  at  night." 

"You  cannot  sleep?"  he  inquired,  with  so  grave  a  concern  that 
I  laughed  outright. 

"Sleep!  with  that  Mr  Crimble  on  my  nerves?"  I  gave  a 
little  nod  in  my  mind  to  my  holly,  and  we  went  on. 

"Crimble?"  he  repeated.  His  eyes,  greenish  at  that  moment, 
shot  an  angry  glance  at  me  from  under  their  lids.     "Who  is  he?" 

"A  friend,  a  friend,"  I  replied,  "and,  poor  man,  as  they  say, 
in  love.  Calm  yourself,  Mr  Jealousy;  not  with  me.  I  am  three 
sizes  too  small.  With  Miss  Bowater.  But  there,"  I  went  on, 
in  dismay  that  mere  vanity  should  have  let  this  cat  out  of  its 
bag,  "that's  not  my  secret.  We  mustn't  talk  of  that  either. 
What  I  really  want  to  tell  you  is  that  we  haven't  much  time. 
I  am  going  away.  Let's  talk  of  Me.  Oh,  Mr  Anon,  shall  I  ever 
be  born  again,  and  belong  to  my  own  world?" 

It  seemed  a  kind  of  mournful  serenity  came  over  his  face. 
"You  say  you  are  going  away" ;  he  whispered,  pointing  with 
his  finger,  "and  yet  you  expect  me  to  talk  about  that." 

We  were  come  to  the  brink  of  a  clear  rain-puddle,  perhaps 
three  or  four  feet  wide,  in  the  moss-greened,  stony  path,  and 
"that"  was  the  image  of  myself  which  lay  on  its  surface  against 
the  far  blue  of  the  sky — the  under-scarlet  of  my  cape,  my  face, 
fair  hair,  eyes.  I  trembled  a  little.  His  own  reflection  troubled 
me  more  than  he  did  himself. 

"Come,"  I  said,  laying  a  hand  on  his  sleeve,  "the  time's 
so  short,  and  indeed  I  must  see  your  house,  you  know:  you 
have  seen  mine.  Ah,  but  you  should  see  Lyndsey  and  Chizzel 
Hill,  and  the  stream  in  my  father's  garden.  I  often  hear  that 
at  night,  Mr  Anon.  I  would  like  to  have  died  a  child,  however 
long  I  must  live." 

But  now  the  cloud  had  completely  swallowed  up  the  sun; 
234 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

a  cold  gust  of  wind  swept  hooting  down  on  us,  and  I  clung  to 
his  arm.  We  pushed  on,  emerged  at  last  from  the  rusty  gates, 
its  eagles  green  and  scaling,  and  crime  to  the  farm,  But  not 
in  time.  A  cloud  of  hail  had  swirled  down;  beating  on  our 
heads  and  shoulders.  It  all  hut  swept  me  up  into  the  .air. 
Catching  hands,  we  hreasted  and  edged  on  up  the  rough,  miry 
lane  towards  a  thatched  harn,  open  on  one  side  and  roofing  a 
red  and  blue  wagon.  Under  this  we  scrambled,  and  tingling 
all  over  with  the  bufferings  of  the  wind  and  the  pelting  of 
hailstones,  I  sat  laughing  and  secure,  watching,  over  my  sodden 
skirts  and  shoes,  the  sweeping,  pattering  drifts  paling  the 
green. 

Around  us  in  the  short  straw  and  dust  stalked  the  farmer's 
fowls,  cackling,  with  red-eyed  glances  askew  at  our  intrusion. 
Ducks  were  quacking.  Doves  flew  in  with  whir  of  wing.  I 
thought  I  should  boil  over  with  delight.  And  presently  a 
sheep-dog,  ears  down  and  tail  between  its  legs,  slid  round  the 
beam  of  the  barn  door.  Half  in,  half  out,  it  stood  bristling, 
eyes  fixed,  head  thrust  out.  My  companion  drew  himself  up 
and  with  a  large  stone  in  his  hand,  edged,  stooping  and  stealthily 
— and  very  much,  I  must  confess,  like  the  picture  of  a  Fuegian 
I  have  seen  in  a  book — between  the  gaudy  wheels  of  the  wagon, 
and  faced  the  low-growling  beast.  I  watched  him,  enthralled. 
For  a  moment  or  two  he  and  the  sheep-dog  confronted 
each  other  without  stirring.  Then  with  one  sharp  bark,  the 
animal  flung  back  its  head,  and  with  whitened  eye,  turned  and 
disappeared. 

"Oh,  bravissimo!"  said  I,  mocking  up  at  Mr  Anon  from 
under  my  hood.  "He  was  cowed,  poor  thing.  /  would  have 
made  friends  with  him." 

We  sate  on  in  the  sweet,  dusty  scent  of  the  stormy  air. 
The  hail  turned  to  rain.  The  wind  rose  higher.  I  began  to  be 
uneasy.  So  heavily  streamed  the  water  out  of  the  clouds  that 
walking  back  by  the  way  we  had  come  would  be  utterly  im- 
possible for  me.  What's  to  be  done  now? — I  thought  to  my- 
self. Yet  the  liquid  song  of  the  rain,  the  gurgling  sighs  and 
trumpetings  of  the  wind  entranced  me;  and  I  turned  softly  to 
glance  at  my  stranger.  He  sat,  chin  on  large-boned  hands,  his 
lank  hair  plastered  on  his  hollow  temples  by  the  rain,  his  eyes 
glassy  in  profile. 

235 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"I  am  glad  of  this,"  he  muttered  dreamily,  as  if  in  response 
to  my  scrutiny.     "We  are  here." 

A  scatter  of  green  leaf -sheaths  from  a  hawthorn  over  against 
the  barn  was  borne  in  by  the  wind. 

"I  am  glad  too,"  I  answered,  "because  when  you  are  at 
peace,  so  I  can  be ;  for  that  marvellous  land  you  tell  me  of 
is  very  far  away.  Why,  who — — ?"'  But  he  broke  in  so  earnestly 
that  I  was  compelled  to  listen,  confiding  in  me  some  queer 
wisdom  he  had  dug  up  out  of  his  books — of  how  I  might  approach 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  between  life  and  reality,  and  see 
all  things  as  they  are,  in  truth,  in  their  very  selves.  All  things 
visible  are  only  a  veil,  he  said.  A  veil  that  withdraws  itself 
when  the  mind  is  empty  of  all  thoughts  and  desires,  and  the 
heart  at  one  with  itself.  That  is  divine  happiness,  he  said. 
And  he  told  me,  too,  out  of  his  far-fetched  learning,  a  secret 
about  myself. 

It  was  cold  in  the  barn  now.  The  fowls  huddled  close. 
Rain  and  wind  ever  and  again  drowned  the  low.  alluring,  far- 
away voice  wandering  on  as  if  out  of  a  trance.  Dreams,  maybe; 
yet  I  have  learned  since  that  one  half  of  his  tale  is  true;  that 
at  need  even  an  afflicted  spirit,  winged  for  an  instant  with 
serenity,  may  leave  the  body  and,  perhaps,  if  lost  in  the  enchant- 
ments beyond,  never  turn  back.  But  I  swore  to  keep  his  words 
secret  between  us.  I  had  no  will  to  say  otherwise,  and  assured 
him  of  my  trust  in  him. 

"My  very  dear,"  he  said,  softly  touching  my  hand,  but  I 
could  make  no  answer. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  peered  down  on  me.  "It  is 
not  my  peace.  All  the  days  you  are  away  .  .  ."  He  gulped 
forlornly  and  turned  away  his  head.  "But  that  is  what  I  mean. 
Just  nothing,  all  this" — he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hands  as 
if  giving  himself  up  a  captive  to  authority — "nothing  but  a  sop  to  a 
dog." 

Then  stooping,  he  drew  my  cape  around  me,  banked  the 
loose  hay  at  my  feet  and  shoulders,  smiled  into  my  face,  and 
bidding  me  wait  in  patience  a  while,  but  not  sleep,  was  gone. 

The  warmth  and  odour  stole  over  my  senses.  I  was  neither 
hungry  nor  thirsty,  but  drugged  with  fatigue.  With  a  fixed  smile 
on  my  face  (a  smile  betokening,  as  I  believe  now,  little  but  femi- 
nine vanity  and  satisfaction  after  feeding  on  that  strange  heart), 
236 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

my  thoughts  went  wandering.  The  sounds  of  skies  and  earth 
drowsed  my  senses,  and  I  nodded  off  into  a  nap.  The  grinding  of 
wheels  awoke  me.  From  a  welter  of  dreams  I  gazed  out  through 
the  opening  of  the  barn  at  a  little  battered  cart  and  a  shaggy  pony. 
And  behold,  on  the  chopped  straw  and  hay  beside  me,  lay  stretched 
out,  nose  on  paw,  our  enemy,  the  sheep-dog.  He  thumped  a 
friendly  tail  at  me,  while  he  growled  at  my  deliverer. 

Thoughtful  Mr  Anon.  He  had  not  only  fetched  the  pony-cart, 
but  had  brought  me  a  bottle  of  hot  milk  and  a  few  raisins.  They 
warmed  and  revived  me.  A  little  light-witted  after  my  sleep  in 
the  hay,  I  clambered  up  with  his  help  into  the  cart  and  tucked  my- 
self in  as  snugly  as  I  could  with  my  draggled  petticoats  and  muddy 
shoes.  So  with  myself  screened  well  out  of  sight  of  prying  eyes, 
we  drove  off. 

All  this  long  while  I  had  not  given  a  thought  to  Mrs  Bowater. 
We  stood  before  her  at  last  in  her  oil-cloth  passage,  like  Adam  and 
Eve  in  the  Garden.  Her  oldest  bonnet  on  her  head,  she  was  just 
about  to  set  off  to  the  police  station.  And  instead  of  showing  her 
gratitude  that  her  anxieties  on  my  account  were  over,  Mrs  Bowater 
cast  us  the  blackest  of  looks.  Leaving  Mr  Anon  to  make  our  peace 
with  her,  I  ran  off  to  change  my  clothes.  As  I  emerged  from  my 
bedroom,  he  entered  at  the  door,  in  an  old  trailing  pilot  coat  many 
sizes  too  large  for  him,  and  I  found  to  my  astonishment  that  he 
and  my  landlady  had  become  the  best  of  friends.  I  marvelled. 
This  little  achievement  of  Mr  Anon's  made  me  like  him — all  of  a 
burst — ten  times  as  much,  I  believe,  as  he  would  have  been  con- 
tented that  I  should  love  him. 

Indeed  the  "high  tea"  Mrs  Bowater  presided  over  that  afternoon, 
sitting  above  her  cups  and  saucers  just  like  a  clergyman,  is  one  of 
the  gayest  memories  of  my  life.  And  yet — she  had  left  the  room 
for  a  moment  to  fetch  something  from  the  kitchen,  and  as,  in  a 
self-conscious  hush,  Mr  Anon  and  I  sat  alone  together,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  on  her  return  pausing  in  the  doorway,  her  capped 
head  almost  touching  the  lintel — and  looking  in  on  us  with  a  quiz- 
zical, benign,  foolish  expression  on  her  face,  like  that  of  a  grown- 
up peeping  into  a  child's  dolls'  house.  So  swirling  a  gust  of  hatred 
and  disillusionment  swept  over  me  at  sight  of  her,  that  for  some 
little  while  I  dared  not  raise  my  eyes  and  look  at  Mr  Anon.  All 
affection  and  gratitude  fled  away.  Miss  M.  was  once  more  an 
Ishmael ! 

237 


Lyme  Regis 


Chapter  Twenty-Nine 

OUT  of  a  cab  from  a  livery  stable  Mrs  Bowater  and  I  alighted 
at  our  London  terminus  next  morning,  to  find  positively 
awaiting  us  beside  the  wooden  platform  a  first-class  railway 
carriage — a  palatial  apartment.  Swept  and  garnished,  padded 
and  varnished — a  miracle  of  wealth!  At  this  very  moment 
I  seem  to  be  looking  up  in  awe  at  the  orange-rimmed  (I  think  it 
was  orange)  label  stuck  on  the  glass  whose  inscription  I  after- 
wards spelled  out  backwards  from  within:  "Mrs  Bywater  and 
Party."  As  soon  as  we  and  our  luggage  were  safely  settled, 
an  extremely  polite  and  fatherly  guard  locked  the  door  on  us. 
At  this  Mrs  Bowater  was  a  little  troubled  by  the  thought  of 
how  we  should  fare  in  the  event  of  an  accident.  But  he  re- 
assured her. 

"Never  fear,  ma'am:  accidents  are  strictly  forbidden  on  this 
line.  Besides  which"  he  added,  with  a  solemn,  turtle-like  stare, 
"if  I  turn  the  key  on  the  young  lady,  none  of  them  young 
a-ogling    Don   Jooans    can    force    their    way    in.     Strict    orders, 


ma'am." 


To  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  Mrs  Bowater  pulled  down 
the  blinds  at  every  stopping-place.  We  admired  the  scenery. 
We  read  the  warning  against  pickpockets,  and  T  translated  it 
out  of  the  French.  After  examining  the  enormous  hotels  de- 
picted in  the  advertisements,  we  agreed  there  was  nothing  like 
home  comforts.  Mrs  Bowater  continued  to  lose  and  find  in 
turn  our  tickets,  her  purse,  her  spectacle-case,  her  cambric  pocket- 
handkerchief,  not  to  mention  a  mysterious  little  screw  of  paper, 
containing  lozenges  I  think.  She  scrutinized  our  luxury  with 
grim  determination.  And  we  giggled  like  two  school-girls  as 
we  peeped  together  through  the  crevices  of  the  blinded  windows 
at  the  rich,  furry  passengers  who  ever  and  again  hurried 
along,  casting  angry  glances  at  our  shrouded  windows. 

Tt  being  so  early  in  the  year — but  how  mild  and  sweet  a 
day — there  were  few  occupants  of  the  coach  at  Axminster.     As 

241 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  had  once  made  a  (frequently  broken)  vow  to  do  at  once 
what  scared  me,  I  asked  to  be  perched  up  on  the  box  beside  the 
lean,  brick-faced  driver.  Thus  giddily  exalted  above  his  three 
cantering  roan  horses,  we  bowled  merrily  along.  With  his  whip  he 
pointed  out  to  me  every  "object  of  interest"  as  it  went  floating 
by — church  and  inn,  farm  and  mansion. 

"Them's  peewits,"  he  would  bawl.  "And  that's  the  selfsame 
cottage  where  lived  the  little  old  'ooman  what  lived  in  a  shoe." 
He  stooped  over  me,  reins  in  fist,  with  his  seamed  red  face 
and  fiery  little  eye,  as  if  I  were  a  small  child  home  for  the 
holidays.  Evening  sunlight  on  the  hill-tops  and  shadowy  in  the 
valleys.  And  presently  the  three  stepping  horses — vapour  jet- 
ting from  their  nostrils,  their  sides  panting  like  bellows — dragged 
the  coach  up  a  hill  steeper  than  ever.  "And  that  there,"  said 
the  driver,  as  we  surmounted  the  crest — and  as  if  for  em- 
phasis he  gave  a  prodigious  tug  at  an  iron  bar  beside  him,  "that 
there's  the  Sea." 

The  Sea.  Flat,  bow-shaped,  hazed,  remote,  and  of  a  blue 
stilling  my  eyes  as  with  a  dream — I  verily  believe  the  saltest 
tears  I  ever  shed  in  my  life  smarted  on  my  lids  as  the  spirit  in 
me  fled  away,  to  be  alone  with  that  far  loveliness.  A  desire 
almost  beyond  endurance  devoured  me.  "Yes,"  cried  hidden 
self  to  self,  "I  can  never,  never  love  him ;  but  he  shall  take  me 
away — away — away.  Oh,  how  I  have  wasted  my  days,  sick 
for  home." 

But  small  opportunity  was  given  me  for  these  sentimental 
reflections.  Nearly  at  the  foot  of  even  another  hill,  and  one 
so  precipitous  that  during  its  rattling  descent  I  had  to  cling  like 
a  spider  to  the  driver's  strap,  we  came  to  a  standstill ;  and  in 
face  of  a  gaping  knot  of  strangers  I  was  lifted  down — with  a 
"There !  Miss  Nantuckety,"  from  the  driver — from  my  perch 
to  the  pavement. 

The  lodgings  Mrs  Monnerie  had  taken  for  us  proved  to  be 
the  sea  rooms  in  a  small,  white,  bow-windowed  house  on  the 
front,  commanding  the  fishing-boats,  the  harbour,  and  the  stone 
Cobb.  I  tasted  my  lips,  snuffed  softly  with  my  nose,  stole 
a  look  over  the  Bay,  and  glanced,  at  Mrs  i  Bowater.  Was 
she,  too,  half-demented  with  this  peculiar  and  ravishing  experi- 
ence? I  began  to  shiver;  but  not  with  cold,  with  delight. 
Face  creased  up  in  a  smile  (the  wind  had  stiffened  the  skin), 
242 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

cheeks  tingling,  and  ravenously  hungry,  I  watched  the  cere- 
monious civilities  that  were  passing  between  landlady  and  land- 
lady: Mrs  Bowater  angular  and  spare;  Mrs  Petrie  round, 
dumpy,  smooth,  and  a  little  bald.  My  friend  Mrs  Monnerie 
was  evidently  a  lady  whose  lightest  word  was  Sesame.  Every 
delicacy  and  luxury  that  Lyme  out  of  its  natural  resources  can 
have  squandered  on  King  George  III.  was  ours  without  the  asking. 

Mrs  Bowater,  it  is  true,  at  our  sea-fish  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing, referred  in  the  first  place  to  the  smell  of  drains;  next 
to  fleas;  and  last  to  greasy  cooking.  But  who  should  have 
the  privilege  of  calling  the  Kettle  black  unless  the  Pot?  More- 
over, we  were  "first-class"  visitors,  and  had  to  complain  of  some- 
thing. I  say  "we" ;  but  since,  in  the  first  place,  all  the  human 
houses  that  I  have  ever  entered  have  been  less  sweet  to  the 
no^e  than  mere  country  out-of-doors;  since  next  (as  I  discovered 
when  I  was  a  child)  there  must  be  some  ichor  or  acid  in  my 
body  unpleasing  to  man's  parasites ;  and  since,  last,  I  cannot  bear 
cooked  animals ;  these  little  inconveniences,  even  if  they  had  not 
existed  solely  in  Mrs  Bowater's  fancy,  would  not  have  troubled  me. 

The  days  melted  away.  We  would  sally  out  early,  while  yet 
many  of  Lyme's  kitchen  chimneys  were  smokeless,  and  would 
return  with  the  shadows  of  evening.  How  Mrs  Bowater  managed 
to  sustain  so  large  a  frame  for  so  many  hours  together  on  a 
few  hard  biscuits  and  a  bottle  of  cold  tea,  I  cannot  discover. 
Her  mood,  like  our  weather  that  April,  was  almost  always  "set 
fair,"  and  her  temper  never  above  a  comfortable  sixty  degrees. 
We  hired  a  goat-chaise,  and  with  my  flaxen  hair  down  my  back 
under  a  sunbonnet,  I  drove  Reuben  up  and  down  the  Es- 
planade— both  of  us  passable  ten-year-olds  to  a  careless  ob- 
server. My  cheeks  and  hands  were  scorched  by  the  sun ;  Mrs 
Bowater  added  more  and  more  lilac  and  white  to  her  outdoor 
attire;  and  Mrs  Petrie  lent  her  a  striped,  and  once  handsome 
parasol  with  a  stork's  head  for  handle,  which  had  been  left 
behind  by  a  visitor — otherwise  unendeared. 

On  warm  mornings  we  would  choose  some  secluded  spot  on 
the  beach,  or  on  the  fragrant,  green-turfed  cliffs,  or  in  the 
Uplyme  meadows.  Though  I  could  never  persuade  Mrs  Bowater 
to  join  me,  I  sometimes  dabbled  in  the  sun  in  some  ice-cold, 
shallow,  seaweedy  pool  between  the  rocks.  Then,  while  she 
read  the  newspaper,  or  crocheted,  I  also,  over  book  or  needle, 

243 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

indulged  in  endless  reverie.  For  hours  together,  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  glass-green,  tumbling  water,  I  would  listen  to  its  enormous, 
far,  phantom  bells  and  voices,  happier  than  words  can  tell, 
And  I  would  lie  at  full  length,  basking  in  the  heat,  for  it  was 
a  hot  May,  almost  wishing  that  the  huge  furnace  of  the  sun 
would  melt  me  away  into  a  little  bit  of  glass :  and  what  colour 
would  that  have  been,  I  wonder?  If  a  small  heart  can  fall 
in  love  with  the  whole  world,  that  heart  was  mine.  But  the 
very  intensity  of  this  greed  and  delight — and  the  tiniest  shell 
or  pebble  on  the  beach  seemed  to  be  all  but  exploding  with  it — 
was  a  severe  test  of  my  strength. 

One  late  twilight,  I  remember,  as  we  idled  homeward,  the 
planet  Venus  floating  like  a  luminous  water-drop  in  the  primrose 
of  the  western  sky,  we  passed  by  a  low  white-walled  house 
beneath  trees.  And  from  an  open  window  came  into  the  quiet 
the  music  of  a  fiddle.  What  secret  decoy  was  in  that  air  I  cannot 
say.  I  stopped  dead,  looking  about  me  as  if  for  refuge,  and 
drinking  in  the  while  the  gliding,  lamenting  sounds. 

Curiously  perturbed,  I  caught  at  Mrs  Bowater's  skirt.  Sky 
and  darkening  headland  seemed  to  be  spinning  around  me — 
melting  out  into  a  dream.  "Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,"  I  whispered,  as 
if  I  were  drowning,  "it  is  strange  for  us  to  be  here." 

She  dropped  herself  on  the  grass  beside  me,  brushing  with 
her  dress  the  scent  of  wild  thyme  into  the  dewy  air,  and  caught 
my  hands  in  hers.  Her  long  face  close  to  mine,  she  gently 
shook  me;  "Now,  now;  now,  now!"  she  called.  "Come  back, 
my  pretty  one.  See!  It's  me,  me,  Mrs  Bowater.  .  .  .  The  love 
she's  been  to  me!" 

I  smiled,  groped  with  my  hand,  opened  my  eyes  in  the 
dimness  to  answer  her.  But  a  black  cloud  came  over  them; 
and  the  next  thing  I  recall  is  waking  to  find  myself  being  carried 
along  in  her  arms,  cold  and  half  lifeless;  and  she  actually 
breaking  ever  and  again  into  a  shambling  run,  as  she  searched 
my  face  in  what  seemed,  even  to  my  scarcely  conscious  brain, 
an  extravagant  anxiety. 

Four  days  afterwards — and  I  completely  restored — we  found 
on  the  breakfast  table  of  our  quiet  sea-room  an  unusually 
bountiful  post:  a  broad,  impressive-looking  letter  and  a  news- 
paper for  Mrs  liowater,  and  a  parcel,  from  Fanny,  for  me. 
Time  and  distance  had  divided  me  from  the  past  more  than  I 
244 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

had  supposed.  The  very  sight  of  her  handwriting  gave  me  a 
qualm.  "Fanny  !  Oh,  my  Heavens,"  cried  a  voice  in  me,  "what's 
wrong  now?" 

But  removing  the  brown  paper  I  found  only  a  book,  and 
it  being  near  to  my  size  as  books  go,  I  opened  it  with  profound 
relief.  My  joy  was  premature.  The  book  Fanny  had  sent 
me  was  by  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor,  Holy  Living  and  Dying:  with 
Prayers  containing  the  Whole  Duly  of  a  Christian.  I  read  over 
and  over  this  title  with  a  creeping  misgiving  and  dismay,  and 
almost  in  the  same  instant,  detected,  lightly  fastened  between 
its  fly-leaves,  and  above  its  inscription — "To  Midgetina:  In 
Memoriam" — an  inch  or  two  of  paper,  pencilled  over  in  Fanny's 
minutest  characters. 

A  slow,  furtive  glance  discovered  Mrs  Bowater  far  too  deeply 
absorbed  to  have  noticed  my  small  movements.  She  was  sitting 
bolt  upright,  her  forehead  drawn  crooked  in  an  unusual  frown. 
An  open  letter  lay  beside  her  plate.  She  was  staring  into, 
rather  than  at,  her  newspaper.  With  infinite  stealth  I  slipped 
Fanny's  scrap  of  paper  under  the  tablecloth,  folded  it  small,  and 
pushed  it  into  my  skirt  pocket.  "A  present  from  Fanny,"  I 
cried  in  a  clear  voice  at  last. 

But  Mrs  Bowater,  with  drooping,  pallid  face,  and  gaze  now 
fixed  deep  on  a  glass-case  containing  three  stuffed,  aquatic 
birds,  had  not  heard  me.  I  waited,  watching  her.  She  folded 
the  newspaper  and  removed  her  spectacles.  "On  our  return," 
she  began  inconsequently,  "the  honourable  Mrs  Monnerie  has 
invited  you  to  stay  in  her  London  house — not  for  a  week  or 
two ;  for  good.  That's  all  as  it  should  be,  I  suppose,  seeing 
that  pay's  pay  and  mine  is  no  other  call  on  you." 

The  automatic  voice  ceased  with  a  gasp.  Her  thoughts  ap- 
peared to  be  astray.  She  pushed  her  knotted  fingers  up  her 
cheeks  almost  to  her  eyes. 

"It's  said,"  she  added  with  long,  straight  mouth,  "that  that 
unfortunate  young  man,  Mr  Crimble — is  ill."  She  gave  a  glance 
at  me  without  appearing  to  see  me,  and  left  the  room. 

What  was  amiss?  Oh,  this  world!  I  sat  trembling  in  empty 
dread,  listening  to  her  heavy,  muffled  footfall  in  the  room  above. 
The  newspaper,  with  a  scrawling  cross  on  its  margin,  lay 
beside  Mrs  Monnerie's  large,  rough-edged  envelope.  I  could 
bear  the   suspense  no  longer.     On   hands   and   knees   I   craned 

245 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

soundlessly  forward  over  the  white  tablecloth,  across  the  rank 
dish  of  coagulating  bacon  fat,  and  stole  one  or  two  of  the 
last  few  lines  of  grey-black  print  at  the  foot  of  the  column: 
"The  reverend  gentleman  leaves  a  widowed  mother.  He  was 
an  only  son,  and  was  in  his  twenty-ninth  year." 

"Leaves";  "was" — the  dingy  letters  blurred  my  sight.  Foot- 
steps were  approaching.  I  huddled  back  to  my  carpet  stool 
on  the  chair.  Mrs  Petrie  had  come  to  clear  away  the  breakfast 
things.  Stonily  I  listened  while  she  cheerfully  informed  me 
that  the  glass  was  still  rising,  that  she  didn't  recollect  such  weather 
not  for  the  month  for  ten  years  or  more.  "You  must  be 
what  I've  heard  called  an  'alcyon,  miss."  She  nodded  her  con- 
gratulations at  me,  and  squinnied  at  the  untasted  bacon. 

"I  am  going  for  a  breath  of  air,  Mrs  Petrie,"  came  Mrs 
Bowater's  voice  through  the  crack  of  the  door.  "Will  you  kindly 
be  ready  for  your  walk,  miss,  in  half  an  hour?" 

Left  once  more  to  myself,  I  heard  the  "alarm"  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece  ticking  as  if  every  beat  were  being  forced  out  of 
its  works,  and  might  be  its  last.  An  early  fly  or  two — my 
strange,  familiar  friends — darted  soundlessly  beneath  the  ceiling. 
The  sea  was  shimmering  like  an  immense  looking-glass.  More 
pungent  than  I  had  ever  remembered  it,  the  refreshing  smell 
of  seaweed  eddied  in  at  the  open  window. 

With  dry  mouth  and  a  heart  that  jerked  my  body  with  its 
beatings,  I  unfolded  Fanny's  scrap  of  paper: — 

"Wise  M., — I  have  thrown  the  stone.  And  now  I  am  fey  for  my 
own  poor  head.  Could  you — and — will  you  absolutely  secretly  send 
me  any  money  you  can  spare?  £15  if  possible.  I'm  in  a  hole — full 
fathom  five — but  mean  to  get  out  of  it.  I  ask  you,  rather  than 
mother,  because  I  remember  you  said  once  you  were  putting  money  by 
out  of  that  young  lady's  independence  of  yours.  Notes  would  be 
best:  if  not,  a  Post  Office  Order  to  this  address,  somehow.  I  must 
trust  to  luck,  and  to  your  wonderful  enterprise,  if  you  would  be  truly 
a  dear.  It's  only  until  my  next  salary.  If  you  can't — or  won't — help 
me,  damnation  is  over  my  head:  but  I  bequeathe  you  a  kiss  all 
honey  and  roses  none  the  less,  and  am,  pro  tern.,  your  desperate  F. 

"PS. — Be  sure  not  to  give  M.  this  address:  and  in  a  week  or  two 
we  shall  all  be  laughing  and  weeping  together  over  the  Prodigal 
Daughter." 

Fanny,  then,  had  not  heard  our  morning  news.  I  read  her 
246 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

scribble  again  and  again  for  the  least  inkling  of  it,  my  thoughts  in 
disorder.     That  sprawling  cross  on  the  newspaper;  this  gibbering 

and  dancing  as  of  a  skeleton  before  my  eyes  ;  and  "the  stone,"  "the 
stone."  What  did  it  mean  ?  The  word  echoed  on  in  my  head  as  if 
it  had  been  shouted  in  a  vault.  I  was  deadly  frightened  and  sick, 
stood  up  as  if  to  escape,  and  found  only  my  own  distorted  face  in 
Mrs  I 'ctrie's  flower-and-butterfly-painted  chimney  glass. 

"You,  you !"  my  eyes  cried  out  on  me.  And  a  furious  storm 
— remorse,  grief,  horror — broke  within.  I  knew  the  whole  aw- 
ful truth.  Like  a  Shade  in  the  bright  light,  Mr  Crimble  stood 
there  beyond  the  table,  not  looking  at  me,  its  face  turned  away. 
Unspeakable  misery  bowed  my  shoulders,  chilled  my  skin. 

"But  you  said  'ill,'  "  I  whispered  angrily  up  at  last  at  Mrs 
''.(•water's  bonneted  figure  in  the  doorway.  "I  have  looked  where 
the  cross  is.     He  is  dead !" 

She  closed  the  door  with  both  hands  and  seated  herself  on  a 
chair  beside  it. 

"I've  trapsed  that  Front,  miss — striving  to  pick  up  the  ends. 
It  doesn't  hear  thinking  of:  that  poor,  misguided  young  man. 
It's  hid  away.  .  .  ." 

"What  did  he  die  of,  Mrs  Bowater?"  I  demanded. 

She  caught  at  the  newspaper,  folded  it  close,  nodded,  shook 
her  head.  "Four  nights  ago,"  she  said.  And  still,  some  one 
last  shred  of  devotion — not  of  fidelity,  not  of  fear,  for  I  longed 
to  pour  out  my  heart  to  her— sealed  my  lips.  Holy  Living  and 
Dying:  Holy  Living  and  Dying:  T  read  over  and  over  the 
faded  gilt  letters  on  the  cover  of  Fanny's  gift,  and  she  in  her 
mockery,  desperate,  too.  "Damnation" — the  word  echoed  on  in 
my  brain. 

But  poor  Mrs  Bowater  was  awaiting  no  confession  from 
me.  She  had  out-trapsed  her  strength.  When  next  I  looked 
round  at  her,  the  bonneted  head  lay  back  against  the  rose- 
garlanded  wallpaper,  the  mouth  ajar,  the  eyelids  fluttering.  It  was 
my  turn  now — to  implore  her  to  "come  back"  :  and  failing  to 
do  so,  I  managed  at  last  to  clamber  up  and  tug  at  the  bell-pull. 


247 


Chapter  Thirty 


I  SURVEYED  with  horror  the  recumbent,  angular  figure 
stretched  out  on  the  long,  narrow,  horsehair  sofa.  The  shut 
eyes — it  was  selfish  to  leave  me  like  this. 

"There,  miss,  don't  take  on,"  Mrs  Petrie  was  saying.  "The 
poor  thing's  coming  round  now.  Slipping  dead  oft  out  of  things 
— many's  the  time  I've  wished  I  could — even  though  you  have 
come  down  for  a  bit  of  pleasuring.'' 

But  it  was  Lyme  Regis's  solemn,  round-shouldered  doctor 
who  reassured  me.  At  first  sight  of  him  I  knew  Mrs  Bowater 
was  not  going  to  die.  He  looked  down  on  her,  politely  protesting 
that  she  must  not  attempt  to  get  up.  "This  unseasonable  heat, 
perhaps.  The  heart,  of  course,  not  so  strong  as  it  might  be." 
He  ordered  her  complete  rest  in  bed  for  a  few  days — light 
nourishment,  no  worry,  and  he  would  look  in  again.  Me  he 
had  not  detected  under  the  serge  window-curtain,  though  he 
cast  an  uneasy  glance  around  him,  I  fancied,  on  leaving  the 
room. 

After  remaining  alone  under  the  still,  sunshiny  window  until 
I  could  endure  it  no  longer,  I  climbed  up  the  steep,  narrow  stairs 
to  Mrs  Bowater's  bedroom,  and  sat  a  while  clasping  the  hand 
that  hung  down  from  the  bed.  The  blind  gently  ballooned  in 
the  breeze.  Raying  lights  circled  across  the  ceiling,  as  carriage 
and  cart  glided  by  on  the  esplanade.  Fearful  lest  even  my 
iinger-tips  should  betray  me  to  the  flat  shape  beneath  the  counter- 
pane, I  tried  hard  to  think.  My  mind  was  in  a  whirl  of  fears 
and  forebodings ;  but  there  was  but  one  thing,  supremely  ur- 
gent, facing  me  now.  I  must  forget  my  own  miseries,  and 
somehow  contrive  to  send  Fanny  the  money  she  needed. 

Somehow;  but  how?  The  poor  little  hoard  which  1  had  saved 
from  my  quarterly  allowances  lay  locked  up  on  Heechwood  Hill 
in  my  box  beneath  my  bed.  By  what  conceivable  means  could 
I  regain  possession  of  it,  unknown  to  Mrs  Bowater? 

Conscience  muttered  harsh  words  in  my  ear  as  I  sat  there  hold- 
248 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ing  that  cold,  limp  hand  with  mine,  while  these  inward  schem- 
ings  shuttled  softly  to  and  fro. 

When  my  patient  had  fallen  asleep,  I  got  downstairs  again 
— a  more  resolute,  if  not  a  hetter  woman.  Removing  latch  and 
hox  keys  from  their  ribbon  round  my  neck,  I  enclosed  them  in  an 
envelope  with  a  letter: — 

"Dear  Mr.  Anon, — I  want  you,  please,  to  help  me.  The  large 
one  of  these  two  keys  unlocks  my  little  house  door :  the  smaller 
one  a  box  under  my  bed.  Would  you  please  let  yourself  in  at 
Mrs  Bowater's  to-morrow  evening  when  it's  dark — there  will  be 
nobody  there — take  out  Twenty  Pounds  which  you  will  find  in  the 
box,  and  send  them  to  Miss  Fanny  Bowatcr,  the  Crown  and  Anchor 

Hotel,  B .     I  will  thank  you  when  I  come. 

"Believe  me,  yours  very  sincerely, 

"M.  M." 

It  is  curious.  Many  a  false,  pandering  word  had  sprung 
to  my  tongue  when  I  was  concocting  this  letter  in  my  mind 
beside  Mrs  Bowater's  bed,  and  even  with  Mrs  Petrie's  stubby, 
ink-corroded  pen  in  my  hand.  Yet  some  last  shred  of  honesty 
compelled  me  to  be  brief  and  frigid.  I  was  simply  determined 
to  be  utterly  open  with  him,  even  though  I  seemed  to  myself 
like  the  dark  picture  of  a  man  in  a  bog  struggling  to  grope  his 
way  out.  I  dipped  my  fingers  into  a  vase  of  wallflowers,  wetted 
the  gum,  sealed  down  the  envelope,  and  wrote  on  it  this  address : 

Mr  ,   Lodging  at  a  cottage  near  the   Farm,    Xorth-west  of 

Wanderslore,  Beechwood,  Kent.     And  I  prayed  heaven  for  its 
safe  delivery. 

For  Fanny  no  words  would  come — nothing  but  a  mere  bare 
promise  that  I  would  help  her  as  soon  as  I  could — an  idiot's 
message.  The  next  three  days  were  an  almost  insupportable 
solitude.  From  Mr  Anon  no  answer  could  be  expected,  since 
in  my  haste  I  had  forgotten  to  give  him  Mrs  Petrie's  address. 
I  brooded  in  horror  of  what  the  failure  of  my  letter  to  reach  him 
might  entail.  I  shared  Fanny's  damnation.  Wherever  I  went, 
a  silent  Mr  Crimble  dogged  my  footsteps.  Meanwhile,  Mrs 
Bowater's  newspaper,  I  discovered,  lay  concealed  beneath  her 
pillow. 

At    length    I    could    bear    myself    no   longer,    and    standing 
beside  her  bed,   asked  if   I   might   read   it.     Until   that   moment 

249 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

we  had  neither  of  us  even  referred  to  the  subject.  Propped  up 
on  her  pillows,  her  long  face  looking  a  strange  colour  against 
their  whiteness,  she  considered  my  request. 

"Well,  miss,"  she  said  at  last,  "you  know  too  much  to  know 
no  more." 

I  spread  out  the  creased  sheets  on  the  worn  carpet,  and 
read  slowly  the  smudged,  matter-of-fact  account  from  beginning 
to  end.  There  were  passages  in  it  that  imprinted  themselves 
on  my  memory  like  a  photograph.  Mr  Crimble  had  taken  the 
evening  Service  that  last  day  looking  "ill  and  worn,  though 
never  in  what  may  be  described  as  robust  health,  owing  to  his 
indefatigable  devotion  to  his  ecclesiastical  and  parochial  duties." 
The  Service  over,  and  the  scanty  congregation  dispersed,  he  had 
sate  alone  in  the  vestry  for  so  unusual  a  time  that  the  verger 
of  St  Peter's,  a  Mr  Soames,  anxious  to  get  home  to  his  supper, 
had  at  length  looked  in  on  him  at  the  door,  to  ask  if  his 
services  were  required  any  further.  Mr  Crimble  had  "raised 
his  head  as  if  startled,"  and  "had  smiled  in  the  negative,"  and 
then,  "closing  the  eastern  door  behind  him,"  had  "hastened"  out 
of  the  church.  No  other  human  eye  had  encountered  him  until 
he  was  found  at  11.27  p.m.  in  an  outhouse  at  the  foot  of  his 
mother's  garden.  "The  head  of  the  unfortunate  gentleman  was 
wellnigh  severed  from  the  body."  "He  was  an  only  son,  and  was 
in  his  twenty-ninth  year.  Universal  sympathy  will  be  extended 
by  all  to  the  aged  lady  who  is  prostrated  by  this  tragic  occurrence." 

Propped  on  my  hands  and  knees,  fearful  that  Mrs  Bowater 
might  interrupt  me  before  I  was  prepared,  I  stared  fixedly  at 
the  newspaper.  I  understood  all  that  it  said,  yet  it  was  as 
strange  to  me  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  Hebrew.  I  had  seen, 
I  had  known,  Mr  Crimble.  Who,  then,  was  this?  My  throat 
drew  together  as  I  turned  my  head  a  little  and  managed  to 
inquire,  "What  is  an  inquest,  Mrs  Bowater  ?" 

"Fretting  out  the  why's  and  wherefore's,"  came  the  response, 
muffled  by  a  handkerchief  pressed  close  to  her  mouth. 

"And — this  'why'?"  I  whispered,  stooping  low. 

"That's  between  him  and  his  Maker,"  said  the  voice.  "The 
poor  young  man  had  set  his  heart  on  we  know  where.  As  we 
make  our  bed  so  we  must  lie  on  it,  miss.  It's  for  nobody  to 
judge:  though  it  may  be  a  lesson." 

"Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,  then  you  knew  I  knew." 
250 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"No,  no.     Not  your  lesson,  miss.     I   didn't  mean  that.     It's 

not  for  you  to  fret  yourself,  though  I  must  say I  have  always 

made  it  a  habit,  though  without  prying,  please  God,  to  be 
aware  of  more  than  interference  could  set  right.  Fanny  and 
I  have  talked  the  affair  over  till  we  couldn't  look  in  each  other's 
faces  for  fear  of  what  we  might  say.  But  she's  Mr  Bowater's 
child,  through  and  through,  and  my  firm  hand  was  not  firm 
enough,  maybe.  You  did  what  you  could.  It's  not  in  human 
conscience  to  ask  more  than  the  natural  frame  can  bear." 

Did  what  I  could.  ...  I  cowered,  staring  at  my  knuckles, 
and  it  seemed  that  a  little  concourse  of  strangers,  heads  close 
together,  were  talking  in  my  mind.  My  eyes  were  dry ;  I  think 
the  spectre  of  a  smile  had  dragged  up  my  lips.  Mrs  Bowater 
raised  herself  in  her  bed,  and  peered  over  at  me. 

"It's  the  letters,"  she  whispered  at  me.  "If  he  hasn't  de- 
stroyed them,  they'll  be  read  to  the  whole  parish." 

I  crouched  lower.  "You'll  be  thankful  to  be  rid  of  me.  I 
shall  be  thankful  to  be  rid  of  myself,  Mrs  Bowater." 

She  thrust  a  long,  skinny  arm  clean  out  of  the  bed.  "Come 
away,  there ;  come  away,"  she  cried. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "take  me  away,  take  me  away.  I  can't  bear  it, 
Mrs  Bowater.     I  don't  want  to  be  alive." 

"There,  miss,  rest  now,  and  think  no  more."  She  smoothed 
my  hair,  clucked  a  little  low,  whistling  tune,  as  if  for  lullaby. 
"Why,  there  now,"  she  muttered  sardonically,  "you  might  almost 
suppose  I  had  been  a  mother  myself !" 

There  was  silence  between  us  for  a  while,  then,  quietly  rais- 
ing herself,  she  looked  down  at  me  on  the  pillow,  and,  finding 
me  to  be  still  awake,  a  long  smile  spread  over  her  face :  "Why, 
we  don't  seem  neither  of  us  to  be  much  good  at  daytime  sleeping." 


251 


Chapter  Thirty-One 


A  MORNING  or  two  afterwards  we  set  out  on  our  homeward 
journey — the  sea  curdling  softly  into  foam  on  its  stones,  a 
solitary  ship  in  the  distance  on  its  dim,  blue  horizon.  We 
were  a  dejected  pair  of  travellers,  keeping  each  a  solemn  face 
turned  aside  at  the  window,  thinking  our  thoughts,  and  avoiding, 
as  far  as  we  could,  any  interchange  of  looks  that  might  betray 
them  one  to  the  other.  For  the  first  time  in  our  friendship 
Mrs  Bowater  was  a  little  short  and  impatient  with  me  over 
difficulties  and  inconveniences  which  I  could  not  avoid,  owing 
to  my  size. 

Her  key  in  the  lock  of  the  door,  she  looked  down  on  me 
in  the  porch,  a  thin  smile  between  nose  and  cheek.     "No  place 

like  home  there  mayn't  be,  miss,"  she  began,  "but The  dark 

passage    was    certainly    uninviting;    the    clock   had    stopped.     "I 
think  I'll  be  calling  round  for  Henry,"  she  added  abruptly. 

I  entered  the  stagnant  room,  ran  up  my  stairs,  my  heart  with 
me — and  paused.  Not  merely  my  own  ghost  was  there  to  meet 
me ;  but  a  past  that  seemed  to  mutter,  Never  again,  never  again, 
from  every  object  on  shelf  and  wall.  Yet  a  faint,  sweet,  un- 
familiar odour  lay  on  the  chilly  air.  I  drew  aside  the  curtain 
and  looked  in.  Fading  on  the  coverlet  of  my  bed  lay  a  few 
limp  violets,  ivory  white  and  faintly  rosy. 

I  was  alone  in  the  house,  concealed  now  even  from  Mr  Bowater's 
frigid  stare.  Yet  at  sight  of  these  flowers  a  slight  vertigo 
came  over  me,  and  I  had  to  sit  on  my  bed  for  a  moment  to 
recover  myself. 

Then  I  knelt  down,  my  heart  knocking  against  my  side,  and 
dragged  from  out  its  hiding-place  the  box  in  which  I  kept 
my  money.  Gritty  with  the  undisturbed  dust  of  our  absence, 
it  was  locked.  I  drew  back,  my  hand  on  my  mouth.  What 
could  be  the  meaning  of  this?  My  stranger  had  come  and 
gone.  Had  he  been  so  stupidly  punctilious  that,  having  taken 
out  the  twenty  pounds,  he  had  relocked  an  almost  empty  box  ? 
252 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Or  had  he,  at  the  last  moment  .  .  .  ?  This  riddle  distressed 
me  so  much  that  instantly  I  was  seized  with  a  violent  head- 
ache. But  nothing  could  he  done  for  the  present.  I  laid  hy 
the  violets  in  a  drawer,  pushed  hack  the  box,  and,  making 
good  a  pretence  at  eating  my  supper  as  I  could,  prepared  for 
the  night. 

One  hy  one  the  clocks  in  hall  and  kitchen  struck  out  the 
hours,  and,  the  wind  being  in  the  East,  borne  on  it  came  the 
chimes  of  St  Peter's.  Automatically  I  counted  the  strokes, 
turning  this  way  and  that,  as  if  my  life  depended  on  this  foolish 
arithmetic,  yet  ready,  like  Job,  to  curse  the  day  I  was  born. 
What  had  my  existence  been  but  a  blind  futility,  my  thought 
for  others  but  a  mask  of  egotism  and  selfishness?  Yet,  in  all 
this  turmoil  of  mind,  I  must  have  slept,  for  suddenly  I  found 
myself  stiff,  drawn-up,  and  wideawake — listening  to  a  cautious, 
reiterated  tapping  against  my  window-pane.  A  tallow  night- 
light  burned  beside  me  in  a  saucer  of  water.  For  the  first  time 
in  my  life — at  least  since  childhood — I  had  been  afraid  to  face 
the  dark.  Why,  I  know  not;  but  I  at  once  leapt  out  of  bed 
and  blew  out  that  light.  The  night  was  moonless,  but  high  and 
starry.  I  peered  through  the  curtains,  and  a  shrouded  figure 
became  visible  in  the  garden — Fanny's. 

Curtain  withdrawn,  we  looked  each  at  each  through  the  cold, 
dividing  glass  in  the  gloom — her  eyes,  in  the  night-spread  pallor 
of  her  skin,  as  if  congealed.  The  dark  lips,  with  an  exaggerated 
attempt  at  articulation,  murmured  words,  but  I  could  catch 
no  meaning.  The  face  looked  almost  idiotic  in  these  contortions. 
I  shuddered,  shook  my  head  violently.     She  drew  back. 

Terrified  that  she  would  be  gone — in  my  dressing-gown  and 
slippers  I  groped  my  way  across  the  room  and  was  soon,  with 
my  door  open,  in  the  night  air.  She  had  heard  me,  and  with  a 
beckon  of  her  finger,  turned  as  if  to  lead  me  on. 

"No,  no,"  I  signalled,  "I  have  no  key."  With  a  gesture, 
she  drew  close,  stooped,  and  we  talked  there  together,  muttering 
in  the  porch. 

"Midgetina,"  she  whispered,  smiling  bleakly,  "it's  this  wretched 
money.  I  must  explain.  I'm  at  my  wit's  end — in  awful  trouble 
— without  it." 

Huddled  close,  I  wasted  no  time  in  asking  questions.  She 
must  come  in.     But  this  she  flatly  refused  to  do.     Yet  money, 

253 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

money  was  her  one  cry:  and  that  she  must  have  before  she 
saw  her  mother  again.  Not  daring  to  tell  her  that  I  was  in 
doubt  whether  or  not  my  savings  were  still  in  my  possession, 
I  pushed  her  hand  away  as  she  knelt  before  me  on  the  upper- 
most step.     "I  must  fetch  it,"  I  said. 

By  good  fortune  my  money-box  was  not  the  weightiest  of 
my  grandfather's  French  trunks — not  the  brass-bound  friend- 
in-need  of  my  younger  days,  and  it  contained  little  but  paper. 
I  hoisted  it  on  to  my  bed,  and,  as  I  had  lately  seen  the  porters 
do  at  the  railway  station,  contrived  to  push  under  it  and  raise 
it  on  to  my  shoulder.  Its  edge  drove  in  on  my  collar-bone  till 
I  thought  it  must  snap.  Thus  laden,  I  staggered  cautiously 
down  the  staircase,  pushed  slowly  across  the  room,  and,  so,  out 
into  the  passage  and  towards  the  rounded  and  dusky  oblong 
of  the  open  door. 

On  the  threshold  Fanny  met  me,  gasping  under  this  burden, 
and  at  sight  of  me  some  blessed  spirit  within  her  seemed  to  give 
her  pause.  "No,  no,"  she  muttered,  and  drew  back  as  if  suddenly 
ashamed  of  her  errand.  On  I  came,  however,  and  prudence 
prevailed.  With  a  sound  that  might  have  been  sigh  or  sob  she 
snatched  the  load  from  me  and  gathered  it  in,  as  best  she 
could,  under  her  cloak. 

"Oh,  Midgetina!"  she  whispered  meaninglessly.  "Now  we 
must  talk."  And  having  wedged  back  the  catch  of  my  door, 
we  moved  quickly  and  cautiously  in  the  direction  of  Wanderslore. 

We  climbed  on  up  the  quiet  hill.  The  cool,  fragrant,  night 
seemed  to  be  luring  us  on  and  on,  to  swallow  us  up.  Yet, 
there  shone  the  customary  stars ;  there,  indeed,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, as  if  the  heavenly  clock  of  the  universe  had  set  back  its 
hands  on  my  behalf,  straddled  the  constellation  of  Orion. 

Come  to  our  beech-tree,  now  a  vast  indistinguishable  tent 
of  whispering,  silky  leaves,  Fanny  seated  herself  upon  a  jutting 
root,  and  I  stood  panting  before  her. 

"Well  ?"  she  said,  with  a  light,  desolate  laugh. 

"Oh,  Fanny,  'well'!"  I  cried. 

"Can't  you  trust  me  ?" 

"Trust  you?" 

"Oh,  oh,  mocking-bird! — with  all  these  riches?" 
254 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  cast  a  glance  up  into  the  leafy  branches,  and  seated  myself 
opposite  to  her. 

"Fanny,    Fanny.     Have   you   heard?" 

"  'Heard,'  she  says !"  It  was  her  turn  to  play  the  parrot. 
"What  am  I  here  for,  but  to  hear  more?  But  never  mind; 
that's  all  over.     Has  mother " 

'"All  over,'  Fanny!"  I  interrupted  her.  "All  over?  But, 
the  letters  ?" 

"What  letters?-'  She  stared  at  me,  and  added,  looking  away, 
"Oh,  mine?"  She  gave  out  the  word  with  a  long,  inexhaustible 
sigh.  "That  was  all  right.  He  did  not  hide,  he  burned.  .  .  . 
Neither  to  nor  from;  not  even  to  his  mother.  Every  paper  de- 
stroyed. I  envy  her  feelings!  He  just  gave  up,  went  out, 
Exit.     I  envy  that,  too." 

"Not  even  to  you,  Fanny?     Not  a  word  even  to  you?" 

The  figure  before  me  crouched  a  little  closer  together.  "They 
said,"  was  her  evasive  reply,  "that  there  is  melancholia  in  the 
family." 

I  think  the  word  frightened  me  even  more  than  its  meaning. 
"Melancholia,"  I  repeated  the  melodious  syllables.     "Oh,  Fanny!" 

"Listen,  Midgetina,"  her  voice  broke  out  coldly.  "I  can  guess 
easily  enough  what's  saving  up  for  me  when  I  come  home 
— which  won't  be  yet  a  while,  I  can  assure  you.  I  can  guess,  too, 
what  your  friends,  Lady  Pollacke  and  Co.,  are  saying  about 
me.  Let  them  rave.  That  can't  be  helped.  I  shall  bear  it, 
and  try  to  grin.  Maybe  there  would  be  worse  still,  if  worse 
were  known.  But  your  worse  I  won't  have,  not  even  from  you. 
I  was  not  his  keeper.  I  did  not  play  him  false.  I  deny  it. 
Could  I  prevent  him — caring  for  me?  Was  he  man  enough  to 
come  openly?  Did  he  say  to  his  mother,  'Take  her  or  leave 
her,  I  mean  to  have  her' — as  /  would  have  done?  No,  he 
blew  hot  and  cold.  He  temporized ;  he — he  was  a  coward.  Oh, 
this  everlasting  dog-fight  between  body  and  mind !  Ages  before 
you  ever  crept  upon  the  scene  he  pestered  and  pestered  me — 
until  I  have  almost  retched  at  the  sound  of  church  bells.  What 
was  it,  J  ask  you,  but  sheer  dread  of  what  the  man  might  go 
and  do  that  kept  me  shilly-shallying?  And  what's  more,  Miss 
Wren,  who  told  me  to  throw  the  stone?  Pff,  it  sickens  me, 
this   paltering  world.     I    can't   and   won't   see   things   but   with 

255 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

my  reason.  My  reason,  I  tell  you.  What  else  is  a  schoolma'am 
for?  Did  he  want  me  for  my  sake?  Who  begged  and  begged 
that  his  beautiful  love  should  be  kept  secret?  There  was  once 
a  philosopher  called  Plato,  my  dear.  He  poisoned  Man's 
soul." 

Flesh  and  spirit,  Fanny  must  have  been  very  tired.  Her 
voice  fluttered  on  like  a  ragged  flag. 

"But  listen,  listen!"  I  entreated  her.  "I  haven't  blamed  you 
for  that,  Fanny.     I  swear  it.     I  mean,  you  can't  help  not  loving. 

I  know  that.     But  perhaps  if  only  we  had It's  a  dreadful 

thing  to  think  of  him  sitting  there  alone — the  vestry — and  then 
looking  up  'with  a  smile.'  Oh,  Fanny,  with  a  smile !  I  dare 
hardly  go  into  his  mind — and  the  verger  looking  in.  I  think  of 
him   all   day." 

"And  I  all  night,"  came  the  reply,  barked  out  in  the  gloom. 
"Wasn't  the  man  a  Christian,  then?'' 

"Fanny,"  I  covered  my  eyes.  "Don't  say  that.  We  shall  both 
of  us  just  suffocate  in  the  bog  if  you  won't  even  let  yourself 
listen  to  what  you  are  saying." 

"Well,"  she  said  doggedly,  "be  sure  you  shall  suffocate  last, 
Miss  Midge.  There's  ample  perch-room  for  you  on  Fanny's 
shoulder.''  I  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  glance  almost  of  hatred 
that  she  cast  at  me  from  under  her  brows. 

"Mock  as  you  like  at  me,"  was  my  miserable  answer,  "I  have 
kept  my  word  to  you — all  but :  and  it  was  I  who  helped —  Oh  yes, 
I   know  that." 

"Ah !  'all  but,'  "  her  agile  tongue  caught  up  the  words.  "And 
what  else,  may  I  ask?" 

I  took  a  deep  breath,  with  almost  sightless  eyes  fixed  on 
the  beautiful,  mysterious  glades  stretching  beneath  us.  "He  came 
again.  Why,  it  was  not  very  many  days  ago.  And  we  talked 
and  talked,  and  I  grew  tired,  yes,  and  angry  at  last.  I  told 
him  you  were  only  making  use  of  me.  You  were.  I  said 
that  all  we  could  do  was  just  to  go  on  loving  you — and  keep  away. 
I  know,  Fanny,  I  cannot  be  of  any  account;  I  don't  understand 
very  much.     But  that  is  true." 

She    leaned    nearer,    as    if    incredulous,    her    face    as    tranquil 
in   its   absorption   as   the   planet   that   hung   in   the   russet-black 
sky  in  a  rift  of  the  leaves. 
256 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Candid,  and  candid,"  she  scoffed  brokenly,  and  all  in  a  gasp. 

The  voice  trailed  off.  Her  mouth  relaxed.  And  suddenly 
my  old  love  for  her  seemed  to  gush  back  into  my  heart.  A  burn- 
ing, inarticulate  pity  rose  up  in  me. 

"Listen,  Midgetina,"  she  went  on.  "That  was  honest.  And 
I  can  be  honest,  too.  I  don't  care  what  you  said.  If  you  had 
called  me  the  vilest  word  they  can  set  their  tongue  to,  I'd  still 
have  forgiven  you.  But  would  you  have  me  give  in?  Go  under? 
Have  you  ever  seen  Mother  Grundy?  I  tell  you,  he  haunts  me 
— the  blackness,  the  deadness.  That  outhouse!  Do  you  suppose 
I  can't  see  inside  that?  lie  sits  by  my  bed.  I  eat  his  shadow 
with  my  food.  At  every  corner  in  the  street  his  black  felt  hat 
bobs  and  disappears.  If  even  he  hadn't  been  so  solemn,  so  in- 
significant !  .  .  ."  Her  low,  torturing  laugh  shook  under  the 
beechen  hollow. 

"And  I  say  this'' — she  went  on  slowly,  as  if  1  sat  at  a  distance, 
"if  he's  not  very  careful  I  shall  go  the  same  way.  I  can't  bear 
that — that  kind  of  spying  on  me.  Don't  you  suppose  you  can 
sin  after  death?  If  only  he  had  given  me  away — betrayed 
me!  We  should  at  least  have  been  square.  But  that,"  she 
jerked  hack  her  head.  "That's  only  one  thing.  I  had  not  meant 
to  humble  myself  like  this.  You  seem  not  to  care  what  humilia- 
tions I  have  to  endure.  You  sit  there,  oh,  how  absurd  for  me, 
watching  and  watching  me,  null  and  void  and  meaningless. 
Yet  you  are  human:  you  feel.  You  said  you  loved  me — oh, 
yes.  But  touch  me,  come  here" — she  laid  her  hand  almost 
fondly  on  her  breast — "and  he  humanly  generous,  no.  That's 
no  more  your  nature  than — than  a  changeling's.  Contamination, 
perhaps)!" 

Her  eyes  fretted  round  her,  as  if  she  had  lost  her  sense 
of  direction. 

"And  now  there's  this  tongueless,  staring  ghost."  She  shud- 
dered, hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.     "The  misery  of  it  all." 

"Fanny,  Fanny,"  I  besought  her.  "You  know  I  love  you." 
But  the  words  sounded  cold  and  distant,  and  some  deadly 
disinclination  held  me  where  I  was,  though  I  longed  to  comfort 
her.  "And  at  times,  I  confess  it.  I  have  hated  you  too.  You 
haven't  always  been  very  kind  to  me.  I  was  trying  to  cure 
myself.     You  were  curing  me.      But  still  I  go  on— a  little." 

"It's   useless,   useless,"   she   replied,   dropping  her   hands   into 

257 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

her  lap  and  gazing  vacantly  on  the  ground.  I  can't  care;  I 
can't  even  cry.  And  all  you  say  is  only  pity.  I  don't  want  that. 
Would  you  still  pity  me,  I  wonder,  if  you  knew  that  even  though 
I  had  come  to  take  this  wretched  money  from  you,  I  meant  to 
taunt  you,  to  accuse  you  of  lying  to  me?" 

"Taunt,"  "lying."  My  cheek  grew  hot.  I  drew  back  my  head 
with  a  jerk  and  stared  at  her.     "I  don't  understand  you." 

"There.  What  did  I  say !  She  doesn't  understand  me,"  she 
cried  with  a  sob,  as  if  calling  on  the  angels  to  bear  witness  to 
her  amazement.  "Well,  then,  let  Fanny  tell  you,  Miss  M.,  who- 
ever and  whatever  you  may  be,  that  she,  yes,  even  she,  can  under- 
stand that  unearthliness,  too.  Oh,  these  last  days !  I  have  had 
my  fill  of  them.  Take  all :  give  nothing.  There's  no  other  means 
of  grace  in  a  world  like  this." 

"But  you  said  'taunt'  me,"  I  insisted,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the 
box  that  lay  between  the  blunt-headed  fronds  of  the  springing 
bracken.  "What  did  you  mean  by  that?  I  did  my  best.  Your 
mother  was  ill.  She  fainted,  Fanny,  when  the  newspaper  came. 
I  couldn't  come  back  a  single  hour  earlier.  So  I  wrote  to — to 
a  friend,  sending  him  my  keys,  and  asking  him  to  find  the  money 
for  you.  I  know  my  letter  reached  him.  Perhaps,"  I  hesitated, 
in  dread  of  what  might  be  hanging  over  our  heads,  "perhaps  the 
box  is  empty." 

But  I  need  not  have  wasted  myself.  The  puzzle  was  not  quite 
inexplicable.  For  the  moment  Fanny's  miseries  seemed  to  have 
vanished.  Animation  came  into  her  face  and  voice  and  move- 
ments as  she  told  me  how,  the  night  before,  thinking  that  her 
mother  and  I  might  have  returned  from  Lyme  Regis,  she  had 
come  tapping.  And  suddenly  as  she  stood  in  the  garden,  her 
face  close  to  the  glass,  an  utterly  strange  one  had  thrust  itself 
into  view,  and  the  figure  of  "a  ghastly  gloating  little  dwarfish 
creature"  had  appeared  in  the  porch. 

At  first  she  had  supposed — but  only  for  an  instant — that  it 
was  myself.  "Of  course,  mother  had  mentioned  him  in  her  let- 
ters, but" — and  Fanny  opened  her  eyes  at  me — "I  never  guessed 
he  was,  well,  like  that." 

Then  in  her  folly,  and  without  giving  him  the  least  oppor- 
tunity to  explain  his  presence  there,  she  had  begun  railing  at 
him,  and  had  accused  him  of  forcing  his  way  in  to  rob  the  house: 
258 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"And  he  stood  there,  hunched  up,  looking  at  me — out  of  my  own 
house."  The  very  picture  of  Fanny  helplessly  standing  there  at 
her  own  door,  and  of  these  two  facing  each  other  like  that  in  the 
porch — this  ridiculous  end  to  my  fine  stratagem,  filled  me  with  a 
miserable  amusement.  I  leaned  back  my  head  where  I  sat, 
shrilly  and  dismally  laughing  and  laughing,  until  tears  sprang 
pricklingly  into  my  eyes.  If  any  listener  had  been  abroad  in 
the  woods  that  night,  he  would,  I  think,  have  hastened  his 
departure. 

But  Fanny  seemed  to  be  shocked  at  my  levity.  She  peered 
anxiously  into  the  clear  night-glooms  around  us. 

"And  what !"  I  said,  still  striving  to  regain  command  over 
myself.     "What  happened  then?     Oh,  Fanny,  not  a  policeman?" 

But  her  memory  of  what  had  followed  was  confused,  or 
perhaps  she  had  no  wish  to  be  too  exact.  All  that  I  could  win 
from  her  for  certain  was  that  after  an  angry  and  bitter  talk 
between  herself  and  Mr  Anon,  he  had  simply  slammed  my  door 
behind  him  and  dared  her  to  do  her  worst. 

"That  was  pretty  brave  of  him,"  I  remarked. 

"Oh,"  said  Fanny  amiably,  "I  am  not  blaming  your  friend, 
Midgetina.     He  seemed  to  be  perfectly  competent." 

Yet  even  now  I  remained  unsatisfied.  If  Fanny  had  come 
secretly  to  Beechwood,  as  she  had  suggested,  and  had  spent  the 
night  with  a  friend,  solely  to  hear  the  last  tidings  of  Mr  Crimble, 
what  was  this  other  trouble,  so  desperate  that  she  had  lost  both 
her  wits  and  her  temper  at  finding  Mr  Anon  there?  Supposing 
the  house  had  been  empty?  My  curiosity  overcame  me,  and  the 
none  too  ingenuous  question  slipped  from  my  tongue :  "Did  you 
want  some  of  the  money  for  mourning,  then,  Fanny?" 

Her  dark,  pale  face,  above  the  black,  enveloping  cloak,  met 
my  look  with  astonishment. 

"Mourning !"  she  cried,  "why,  that  would  be  the  very No, 

not  mourning,  Midgetina.  I  owe  a  little  to  a  friend — and  not 
money  only,"  she  added  with  peculiar  intensity.  "Of  course,  if 
you  have  any  doubts  about  lending  it " 

"Give,  not  lend,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  but  how  are  we  to  get  at  it?  I  can't  lug  that  thing 
about,  and  you  say  he  has  the  key.     Shall  we  smash  it  open?" 

The  question  came  so  hurriedly  that  I  had  no  time  to  con- 

259 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

sider  what,  besides  money — and  of  course  friendship — could  be 
owed  to  a  friend,  and  especially  to  a  friend  that  made  her  clench 
her  teeth  on  the  word. 

"Yes,  smash  it  open,"  I  nodded.     "It's  only  a  box." 

"But  such  a  pretty  little  box!" 

With  knees  drawn  up,  and  shivering  now  after  my  outburst 
of  merriment,  I  watched  her  labours.  My  beloved  chest  might 
keep  out  moth  and  rust,  it  was  no  match  for  Fanny.  She 
wound  up  a  large  stone  in  her  silk  scarf.  A  few  heavy  and 
muffled  blows,  the  lock  surrendered,  and  the  starlight  dripped 
in  like  milk  from  heaven  upon  my  hoard. 

"Why,  Midgetina,"  whispered  Fanny,  delicately  counting  the 
notes  over  between  her  long,  white  fingers,  "you  are  richer  than 
I  supposed — a  female  Croesus.  Wasn't  it  a  great  risk  ?  I  mean," 
she  continued,  receiving  no  answer,  "no  wonder  he  was  so  cautious. 
And  how  much  may  I  take?" 

It  seemed  as  if  an  empty  space,  not  of  yards  but  of  miles, 
had  suddenly  separated  us.     "All  you  want,"  said  I. 

"But  I  didn't— I  didn't  taunt  you,  now,  did  I?"  she  smiled 
at  me,  with  head  inclined  to  her  slim  shoulder,  as  if  in  mimicry 
of  my  ivory  Hypnos. 

"There  was  nothing  to  taunt  me  about.  Mayn't  /  have  a 
friend?" 

"Why,"  she  retorted  lightly,  mechanically  re-counting  the  bits 
of  paper,  "friend  indeed!  What  about  all  those  Pollackes  and 
Monneries  mother's  so  full  of  ?  You  will  soon  be  flitting  to  quite 
another  sphere.  It's  the  old  friends  that  then  will  be  left  mourn- 
ing.    You  won't  sit  moon-gazing  then,  my  dear." 

"No,  Fanny,"  I  said  stubbornly,  "I've  had  enough  of  that,  just 
for  the  present." 

"Sst!"  she  whispered  swiftly,  raising  her  head  and  clasping 
the  notes  to  her  breast  beneath  her  cloak,  "what  was  that?" 

We  listened.  I  heard  nothing — nothing  but  sigh  of  new-born 
leaf,  or  falling  of  dead  twig  cast  off  from  the  parent  tree. 
It  was  early  yet  for  the  nightingale. 

"Only  the  wind,"  said  she. 

"Only  the  wind,"  I  echoed  scornfully,  "or  perhaps  a  weasel." 

She  hurriedly  divided  my  savings  and  thrust  my  share  into 
my  lap.     I   pushed  it  in  under  my  arm. 
260 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Good  heavens,  Midgetina !"  she  cried,  aghast.  "You  are  almost 
naked.     How  on  earth  was  I  to  know?" 

I  clutched  close  my  dressing-gown  and  stumbled  to  my  feet, 
trying  in  vain  to  restrain  my  silly  teeth  from  chattering.  "Never 
mind  about  me,  Fanny,"  I  muttered.  "They  don't  waste  in- 
quests on  changelings." 

"My  God!''  was  her  vindictive  comment,  "how  she  harps  on 
the  word.  As  if  1  had  nothing  else  to  worry  about."  With 
a  contemptuous  foot  she  pushed  my  empty  box  under  cover 
of  a  low-growing  yew.  Seemingly  Wanderslore  was  fated  to  en- 
tomb one  by  one  all  my  discarded  possessions. 

Turning,  she  stifled  a  yawn  with  a  sound  very  like  a  groan. 
"Then  it's  au  rcvoir,  Midgetina.  Give  me  five  minutes'  start. 
.  .  .  You  know  I  am  grateful  ?" 

"Yes,    Fanny,"    I   said   obediently,    smiling   up   into   her    face. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me?"  she  said.  "Tout  comprendre,  you  know, 
e'est  tout  pardonncr." 

"Why,  Fanny,"  I  replied ;  "no,  thank  you.  I  prefer  plain 
English." 

Hut  scarcely  a  minute  had  separated  us  when  I  sprang  up 
and  pursued  her  a  few  paces  into  the  shadows,  into  which  she 
had  disappeared.  To  forgive  all — how  piteously  easy  now 
that  she  was  gone.  She  had  tried  to  conceal  it,  brazen  it  out, 
but  unutterable  wretchedness  had  lurked  in  every  fold  of  her 
cloak,  in  the  accents  of  her  voice,  in  every  fatigued  gesture.  Her 
very  eyes  had  shone  the  more  lustrously  in  the  starlight  for  the 
dark  shadows  around  them.  But  understand  her — I  could  not 
even  guess  what  horrible  secret  trouble  she  had  been  concealing 
from  me.  And  beyond  that,  too — a  hideous,  selfish  dread — 
my  guilty  mind  was  haunted  by  the  fear  of  what  she  might  do 
in  her  extremity. 

"Fanny,  Fanny,"  I  called  falsely  into  the  silence.  "Oh,  come 
back !     I  love  you  ;  indeed  I  love  you." 

How  little  blessed  it  is  at  times  even  to  give.  No  answer 
came.  I  threw  myself  on  the  ground.  And  I  strove  with  myself 
in  the  darkness,  crushing  out  every  thought  as  it  floated  into 
my  mind,  and  sinking  on  and  on  into  the  depths  of  unconscious- 


ness. 
« 


Oh,    my    dear,    my    dear,"    came    the    whisper    of    a    tender, 

261 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

guttural  voice  in  my  ear.  "You  are  deathly  cold.  Why  do 
you  grieve  so?  She  is  gone.  Listen,  listen.  They  have  neither 
love  nor  pity.     And  I — I  cannot  live  without  you." 

I  sat  up,  black  with  rage.  My  stranger's  face  glimmered  ob- 
scurely in  the  gloom. 

"Oh,  if  you  spy  on  me  again !"  I  rasped  at  him,  "  'live  without 
me,'  what  do  I  care? — you  can  go  and " 

But,  thank  God,  the  die  zvithout  me  was  never  uttered.  I 
haven't  that  to  haunt  me.  Some  hidden  strength  that  had  been 
mine  these  few  days  melted  away  like  water.  "Not  now;  not 
now!"  I  entreated  him.     I  hastened  away. 


262 


London 


Chapter  Thirty-Two 


AND  then — well,  life  plays  strange  tricks.  In  a  week  or  two 
London  had  swallowed  me  up.  How  many  times,  I  won- 
der, had  I  tried  in  fancy  to  picture  Mrs  Monnerie's  town 
hquse.  How  romantic  an  edifice  fancy  had  made  of  it.  Impres- 
sive in  its  own  fashion,  it  fell  far  short  of  these  ignorant  dreams. 
It  was  No.  2  of  about  forty,  set  side  by  side,  their  pillared  porticoes 
fronting  a  prodigious  square.  Its  only  "garden,"  chiefly  the  re- 
sort of  cats,  children,  nursemaids,  an  old  whiskered  gentleman  in 
a  bath  chair,  and  sparrows,  was  visible  to  every  passer-by  through 
a  spear-headed  palisade  of  railings.  P>road  paving-stones  skirted 
its  areas,  and  over  each  descent  of  steps  hung  a  bell-pull. 

On  cloudless  days  the  sun  filled  this  square  like  a  tank  with  a 
dry  glare  and  heat  in  which  even  my  salamanderish  body  some- 
times gasped  like  a  fish  out  of  water.  When  rain  fell  out  of  the 
low,  grey  skies,  and  the  scaling  plane-trees  hissed  and  the  sparrows 
chirped,  my  spirits  seemed  to  sink  into  my  shoes.  And  fair  or 
foul,  London  soot  and  dust  were  enemies  alike  to  my  eyes,  my 
fingers,  and  my  nose. 

Even  my  beloved  cloud-burdened  north-west  wind  was  never 
quite  free  of  smuts  and  grit ;  and  when  blew  the  east !  But  it 
must  be  remembered  how  ignorant  and  local  I  was.  In  my  long 
carriage  journey  to  Mrs  Monnerie's  through  those  miles  and  miles 
of  grimed,  huddling  houses,  those  shops  and  hoardings  and 
steeples,  I  had  realized  for  the  first  time  that  its  capital  is  not  a 
part  of  England,  only  a  sprawling  human  growth  in  it ;  and  though 
I  soon  learned  to  respect  it  as  that.  I  could  never  see  without  a 
sigh  some  skimpy  weed  struggling  for  life  in  its  bricked-up  crev- 
ices. It  was  nearly  all  dead,  except  for  human  beings,  and  that 
could  not  be  said  of  Lyndsey,  or  even  of  Reechwood  Hill. 

Maybe  my  imagination  had  already  been  prejudiced  by  a  col- 
oured drawing  which  Mr  Wagginhorne  had  sent  me  once  for  a 
Valentine  when  I  was  a  child.  It  hangs  up  now  in  that  child's  nur- 
sery for  a  memento  that  I  have  been  nearly  dead.     In  the  midst  of 

265 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

it  on  a  hill,  in  gold  and  faded  carmine,  encircled  with  great  five- 
pointed  blue  stars,  and  with  green,  grooved  valleys  radiating  from 
its  castellated  towers,  is  a  city — Hierusalem.  A  city  surmounted 
by  a  narrow  wreathing  pennon  on  which,  inscribed  in  silver,  are 
the  words :  "Who  heareth  the  Voice  of  My  Spirit  ?  And  how 
shall  they  who  deceive  themselves  resort  unto  Me?" 

Scattered  far  and  near  about  this  central  piece,  and  connected 
with  it  by  thin  lines  like  wandering  paths  radiating  from  its  gates 
across  mountain,  valley,  and  forest,  lie,  like  round  web-like 
smudges,  if  seen  at  a  distance,  the  other  chief  cities  of  the  world, 
Rome,  Venice,  Constantinople,  Paris,  and  the  rest.  London 
sprawls  low  in  the  left-hand  corner.  The  strongest  glass  cannot 
exhaust  the  skill  and  ingenuity  of  the  maker  of  this  drawing  (an 
artist  who,  Mr  Wagginhorne  told  me,  was  mad,  poor  thing — a 
man  in  a  frenzy  distemper — his  very  words).  For  when  you  peer 
close  into  this  London,  it  takes  the  shape  of  a  tusked,  black,  hairy 
boar,  sprawling  with  hoofs  outspread,  fast  asleep.  And  between 
them,  and  even  actually  diapering  the  carcass  of  the  creature,  is 
a  perfect  labyrinth  of  life — a  high  crowned  king  and  queen,  honey- 
hiving  bees,  an  old  man  with  a  beard  as  if  in  a  swoon,  robbers  with 
swords,  travellers  with  beasts  and  torches,  inns,  a  cluster  of  sharp- 
coloured  butterflies  (of  the  same  proportion)  fluttering  over  what 
looks  like  a  clot  of  dung,  a  winding  river,  ships,  trees,  tombs, 
wasted  unburied  bodies,  a  child  issuing  from  an  egg,  a  phoenix  tak- 
ing flight :  and  so  on.  There  is  no  end  to  this  poor  man's  devices. 
The  longer  you  look,  the  more  strange  things  you  discover.  Yet 
at  distance  of  a  pace  or  two,  his  pig  appears  to  fade  into  nothing 
but  a  cloudy-coloured  cobweb — one  of  the  many  around  his 
bright-dyed   Hierusalem. 

Now  I  cannot  help  wondering  if  this  peculiar  picture  may  not 
already  have  tinged  a  young  mind  with  a  curious  horror  of  Lon- 
don ;  even  though  my  aversion  may  have  needed  no  artificial  aid. 

Still  I  must  not  be  ungrateful.  These  were  vague  impressions ; 
and  as  an  actual  fact,  Mrs  Monnerie  had  transported  me  into  the 
very  midst  of  the  world  of  rank  and  fashion.  Her  No.  2  was  now 
my  home.  The  spaciousness,  the  unnatural  solitude,  the  servants 
who  never  so  much  as  glanced  at  me  until  after  my  back  was 
turned,  the  hushed  opulency,  the  formality!  Tt  was  impossible 
to  be  just  my  everyday  Miss  M.  My  feet  never  found  themselves 
twirling  me  round  before  their  mistress  was  aware  of  it.  I  all  but 
266 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

gave  up  gossiping  with  myself   as  I   went  about  my   little   self- 
services. 

Parochial  creature  that  I  was — I  missed  Mrs  Bowater's  "homeli- 
ness." To  have  things  out  of  proportion  to  my  body  was  an  old 
story.  To  that,  needless  to  say,  ]  was  perfectly  accustomed.  But 
here  things  were  at  first  out  of  all  proportion  to  my  taste  and 
habits,  a  very  different  thing.  It  is,  in  fact,  extremely  difficult  in 
retrospect  to  get  side  by  side  again  with  those  new  experiences — 
with  a  self  that  was  at  one  moment  intoxicated  and  engrossed,  and 
the  next  humiliated  and  desperately  ill  at  ease,  at  the  novelty  of 
her   surroundings. 

I  had  a  maid,  too,  Fleming,  with  a  pointed  face  and  greenish 
eyes,  who,  unlike  Mrs  Bowater,  did  not  snort,  but  sniffed  at 
things.  Whether  I  retired  for  the  night  or  rose  in  the  morning,  it 
was  always  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  half-audible  sniff.  And  I 
was  never  perfectly  certain  whether  that  sniff  was  one  of  the 
mind,  or  of  the  body,  or  of  both.  I  found  it  hard  to  learn  to  do 
little  enough  for  myself.  Fleming  despised  me — at  least  so  I  felt 
— even  for  emptying  my  wash-basin,  or  folding  my  nightgown. 
Worse,  I  was  never  sure  of  being  alone :  she  stole  about  so  softly 
on  her  duties.     And  then  the  "company." 

Not  that  the  last  black  days  at  Beechwood  were  not  even  blacker 
for  the  change.  At  first  I  tried  to  think  them  quietly  over,  to  ravel 
out  my  mistakes,  and  to  get  straight  with  my  past.  But  I  couldn't 
in  all  that  splendour.  I  had  to  spend  much  more  time  in  bewaring 
of  faux  pas,  and  in  growing  accustomed  to  being  a  kind  of  tame, 
petted  animal — tame  even  to  itself,  I  mean.  So  Mrs  Bowater's 
went  floating  off  into  the  past  like  a  dingy  little  house  on  the  edge 
of  a  muddy  river.  Amid  that  old  horror  and  anxiety,  even  my 
dear  Pollie's  wedding  day  had  slipped  by  unheeded.  Flow  often 
my  thoughts  went  back  to  her  now.  If  only  she  could  have  been 
my  Fleming. 

I  tried  to  make  amends  for  my  forget  fulness — even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  pocketing  my  pride,  and  commissioning  Fleming  to  pur- 
chase for  me  (out  of  the  little  stock  of  money  left  me  by  Fannv^  a 
cradle,  as  a  wedding  present  for  Pollie,  and  a  chest  of  tools  for  her 
husband.  Oddly  enough,  she  did  not  sniff  at  this  request.  Her 
green  eyes  almost  sparkled.  At  the  very  word,  wedding,  she 
seemed  to  revive  into  a  new  woman.  And  Pollie  completely  for- 
gave me : — 

267 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


"Dear  Miss  M., — We  was  mother  and  all  very  sorry  and  grieved 
you  couldn't  come  though  it  passed  off  very  satisfactory.  As  for 
forgetting  please  don't  mention  the  word,  Lyndsey  have  never  been 
the  same  since  the  old  house  was  empty.  It  all  passed  off  very  satis- 
factory though  with  such  torrents  of  rain  there  was  a  great  pool 
in  the  churchyard  which  made  everybody  in  high  spirits.  And 
William  and  I  can't  thank  you  enough  for  those  beautiful  gifts 
you  have  sent  us.  Will  have  been  a  carpenter  since  he  was  a  boy 
but  there's  things  there  miss  he  says  he  never  heard  on  in  his  born 
days  but  will  be  extreamly  useful  when  he  comes  to  know  what 
for.  And  Mother  says  it  was  just  like  your  good  kind  heart  to  think 
of  what  you  sent  me.  You  can't  think  how  handsome  it  looks  in 
the  new-papered  room  and  I'm  sure  I  hope  if  I  may  say  so  it  may 
be  quite  as  useful  as  Will's  tools,  and  its  being  pretty  late  to  marry 
it  isn't  as  if  I  was  a  slip  of  a  girl.  And  of  course  I  have  mother. 
Though  if  any  does  come  you  may  be  sure  it  will  be  a  Sunday 
treat  being  too  fine  for  ordinary. 

"Please  God  miss  I  hope  you  are  keeping  well  and  happy  in  your 
new  suroundings  and  that  dream  will  come  true.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful moment  that  day  by  the  shops  but  I'm  thankful  all  came 
well.  If  you  ever  writes  to  Mrs.  B.  I  trust  you  will  mention  me 
to  her  kindly  not  being  much  of  a  letter  writer.  If  you  could  have 
heard  the  things  she  said  of  you  your  ears  would  burn  miss  you  were 
such  a  treasure  and  to  judge  from  her  appearance  she  must  have 
seen  her  troubles.  And  being  a  married  woman  helps  to  see  into 
things  though  thank  God  I'm  well  and  happy  and  William  hopes  to 
keep  me  so. 

"Well  I  must  close  now  trusting  that  you  are  in  the  best  of  health. 
Your  old  Pollie. 

"Miss  Fenne  have  been  very  poorly  of  late  so  I've  heard  though  not 
yet  took  to  her  bed — more  peculiar  than  ever  about  Church  and 
such  like.  Adam  Waggett  being  W's  oldest  friend  though  not 
my  choice  was  to  have  been  Best  Man  but  he's  in  service  in  London 
and  couldn't  come." 

But  if  I  pined  for  Pollie's  company,  how  can  I  express  what 
the  absence  of  Mrs  Bowater  meant  to  me?  Even  when  I  had 
grown  used  to  my  new  quarters,  I  would  sometimes  wake  my- 
self calling  her  name  in  a  dream.  She  had  been  almost  unendur- 
ably  kind  to  me  that  last  May  morning  in  Wanderslore,  when  she 
had  come  to  fetch  me  from  yet  another  long  adieu — to  Mr  Anon. 
After  he  had  gone,  she  and  I  had  sat  on  for  a  while  in  that  fresh 
spring  beauty,  a  sober  and  miserable  pair.  Miserable  on  my  side 
268 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

for  miserable  reasons.  Then,  if  ever,  had  been  the  moment 
wherein  to  clear  my  breast  and  he  in  spirit  as  well  as  heart  at  one 
with  her.  Yet  part  for  honesty  and  part  for  shame,  I  had  re- 
mained silent.  I  could  only  comfort  myself  with  remembering 
that  we  should  soon  meet  again,  and  that  the  future  might  be 
kinder.  Well,  sometimes  the  future  is  kinder,  but  it  is  never  the 
same  thing  as  the  past. 

"They  may  perhaps  talk  about  that  unfortunate  .  .  .  about  that 
poor  young  Mr  Crimble,  miss,"  was  one  of  my  landlady's  last  re- 
marks, as  she  sat  staring  rigidly  at  the  great,  empty  house.  "We 
all  take  good  care  to  spread  about  each  other's  horrors;  and  what 
else  is  a  newspaper  for?  If  so ;  well,  I  shouldn't  ask  it,  I  suppose, 
lint  I've  been  thinking  maybe  my  Fanny  wasn't  every  thing  to 
blame.  We've  had  it  out  together,  she  and  I,  though  only  by  letter. 
She  was  frightened  of  me  as  much  as  anything,  though  goodness 
knows  I  tried  to  bring  her  up  a  God-fearing  child.  She  had  no 
one,  as  she  thought,  to  go  to — and  him  a  weak  creature  for  all  his 
obstinacy  and,  as  you  might  say,  penned  in  by  his  mother  and  his 
cloth.  They  say  the  Cartholics  don't  marry,  and  there's  nothing 
much  to  be  wondered  at  in  that.  Poor  young  fellow,  he  won't 
bear  much  thinking  on,  even  when  he's  gone  out  of  mind.  I'm 
fearing  now  that  what's  come  about  may  make  her  wilder  and 
harder.  Help  her  all  you  can,  if  only  in  your  thoughts,  miss:  she 
sets  more  store  by  you  than  you  might  guess." 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  will,"  I  said. 

"You  see,  miss,"  Mrs  Bowater  monotoned  on,  "I'm  nothing 
much  better  than  an  aunt  for  Fanny,  with  no  children  of  my  own 
for  guidance;  and  him  there  helpless  with  his  broken  leg  in 
Buenos  Ayres."  The  long,  bonneted  face  moved  round  towards 
me.  "Do  you  feel  any  smouldering  affections  for  the  young 
gentleman  that's  just  gone?" 

This  was  an  unexpected  twist  to  our  talk,  but,  in  some  little  con- 
fusion, I  met  it  as  candidly  as  I  could. 

"I  am  fonder  of  Fanny — and,  of  course,  of  you,  Mrs  Bowater; 
oh,  far,  far.  But — I  don't  quite  know  how  to  express  it — I  am, 
as  you  might  say,  in  my  own  mind  with  him.  I  think  he  knows  a 
little  what  T  am,  in  myself  I  mean.  And  besides,  oh,  well,  it  isn't 
a  miserable  thing  to  feel  that  just  one's  company  makes  anybody 
happy." 

Mrs  Bowater  considered  this  reply  for  some  little  time. 

269 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"He  didn't  look  any  too  happy  j,ust  now,  to  judge  from  his  back 
view,"  she  remarked  oracularly.  "And  when  I  was  .  .  .  But 
there,  miss,  I'm  thinking  only  of  your  comfort,  and  I'm  not  quite 
as  comfortable  as  might  be  over  that  there  Mrs  Monnerie.  Gen- 
erous she  may  be,  though  not  noticing  it  much  perhaps  from  a 
purse  with  no  bottom  to  it,  judging  from  what  I've  seen.  God 
bless  you,  one  way  or  the  other.  And  perhaps  you'll  sometimes 
remember  the  bits  of  Sundays  we've  shared  up  there — you  and  the 
old  Dragon." 

A  smile  and  a  tear  battled  for  the  dark  eye  that  looked  down  on 
me.  Indeed,  seldom  after  came  a  Sunday  evening  with  its  clank- 
ing bells  and  empty,  London  hush,  but  it  brought  back  to  me  with 
a  pang  my  hymns  and  talks  with  "the  old  Dragon."  Not  that 
any  one  I  ever  saw  at  Mrs  Monnerie's  appeared  to  work  so  hard 
as  to  need  a  day  of  rest.  There  was  merely  a  peculiar  empty 
sensation  on  Sundays  of  there  being  nothing  "to  do." 

A  flight  of  stone  steps  and  a  pillared  porch  led  up  to  her  great 
ornamental  door.  Beyond  was  a  hall  compared  with  which  the 
marbles  of  Brunswick  House  were  mere  mosaic.  An  alabaster 
fountain,  its  jet  springing  lightly  from  a  gilded  torch  held  by  a 
crouching  faun,  cooled,  and  discreetly  murmured  a  ceaseless 
Hush!  in  the  air.  On  either  hand,  a  wide,  shallow  staircase 
ascended  to  an  enormous  gilded  drawing-room,  with  its  chairs 
and  pictures;  and  to  the  library.  The  dining-room  stood  oppo- 
site the  portico.  When  Mrs  Monnerie  and  I  were  alone,  we  usu- 
ally shared  a  smaller  room  with  her  parrot,  Chakka;  her  little 
Chinese  dog,  Cherry— whose  whimper  had  a  most  uncomfortable 
resemblance  to  the  wild  and  homesick  cry  of  my  seagulls  at  Lyme 
Regis— and  her  collections  of  the  world's  smaller  rarities.  It  is 
only,  I  suppose,  one  more  proof  of  how  volatile  a  creature  I 
used  to  be  that  I  took  an  intense  interest  in  the  contents  of 
these  cabinets  for  a  few  days,  and  then  found  them  nothing  but 
a  vexation.  No  doubt  this  was  because  of  an  uneasy  suspicion 
that  Mrs  Monnerie  had  also  collected  me. 

She  could  be  extremely  tactful  in  her  private  designs,  yet 
she  "showed  me  off"  in  a  fashion  that  might  have  turned  a  far 
less  giddy  head  than  her  protegee's,  and  perhaps  cannot  have  been 
in  the  best  of  taste. 

So  sure  had  she  been  of  me  that,  when  I  arrived,  a  room 
270 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

on  the  first  floor  of  No.  2  had  already  been  prepared  for  my 
reception.  A  wonderful  piece  of  fantasticalness — like  a  miniature 
fairy  palace,  but  without  a  vestige  of  any  real  make-believe  in 
it.  It  was  panelled  and  screened  with  carvings  in  wood,  in- 
laid with  silver  and  mother-of-pearl — dwarfs  and  apes  and  mis- 
shapen gods  and  goddesses  leering  and  gaping  out  at  one  from 
amidst  leafy  branches,  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  birds,  and  butter- 
flies. The  faintest  sniff  of  that  Indian  wood — whatever  it  was — 
recalls  to  this  day  that  nightmare  scenery.  Its  hangings  were  of  a 
silk  so  rich  that  they  might  have  stood  on  edge  on  the  floor.  These 
screens  and  tapestries  guarded  a  privacy  that  rarely,  alas,  con- 
tained a  Miss  M.  worth  being  in  private  with. 

The  one  piece  of  chagrin  exhibited  by  Mrs  Monnerie  in  those 
early  days  of  our  acquaintance  was  at  my  insistence  on  bringing 
at  least  a  few  of  my  familiar  sticks  of  furniture  and  chattels 
with  me  from  Mrs  Bowater's.  Their  plain  Sheraton  design, 
she  thought,  was  barbarously  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest.  It 
was ;  but  I  had  my  way. 

Not  the  least  precious  of  these  old  possessions,  though  dis- 
mal for  its  memories,  was  the  broken  money  chest  which  Fanny 
had  pushed  in  under  the  yew  in  the  garden  at  Wanderslore. 
Tacked  up  in  canvas,  its  hinges  and  lock  repaired,  it  had  been 
sent  on  to  me  a  week  or  two  after  my  farewells  to  Beech- 
wood,  by  Mr  Anon.  Inside  it  I  found  the  nightgown  I  had 
buried  in  the  rabbit's  hole,  Fanny's  letter  from  under  its  stone, 
my  Sense  and  Sensibility,  and  last,  pinned  on  to  a  scrap  of  king- 
fisher coloured  silk,  a  pair  of  ear-rings  made  qut  of  two  old 
gold  coins.  Apart  from  a  few  withered  flowers,  they  are  the 
only  thing  I  possess  that  came  from  Wanderslore.  Long  after- 
wards, I  showed  these  ear-rings  to  Sir  W.  P.  He  told  me  they 
were  quarter  Rose  Nobles  of  Edward  III.'s  reign,  and  only  a 
quarter  of  a  quarter  of  an  ounce  in  weight.  They  weigh  pretty 
heavy  for  me  now,  however. 

My  arrangement  with  Mrs  Monnerie  had  been  that,  however 
long  I  might  stay  with  her,  I  should  still  be  in  the  nature  of  a 
visitor;  that  No.  2,  in  fact,  should  be  my  town  house,  and  Mrs 
Bowater's  my  country.  But  I  was  soon  to  realize  that  she 
intended  Mrs  Bowater  to  have  a  very  small  share  in  me.  She 
pretended  to  be  jealous  of  me,  to  love  me  for  my  own  sweet 
sake;  and  even  while  I  knew  it  was  mere  pretence,  it  left  its 

271 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

flattery  on  my  mind;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  feigned 
to  be  even  smaller  than  I  was;  would  mince  my  speeches,  af- 
fect to  be  clever,  even  ogle  the  old  lady,  until  it  might  be  sup- 
posed we  were  a  pair  of  queerly-assorted  characters  in  a  charade. 

Nevertheless,  I  had  had  the  obstinacy  to  insist  that  I  should 
be  at  liberty  to  stay  with  Mrs  Bowater  whenever  I  wished  to 
do  so;  and  I  was  free  to  invite  any  friend  to  visit  me  I  chose. 
"And  especially,  my  dear,  any  one  an  eighth  as  exquisite,"  Mrs 
Monnerie  had  kindly  put  it.  It  may  seem  a  little  strange  that 
all  these  obligations  should  have  been  on  her  side.  But  Mrs 
Monnerie's  whims  were  far  more  vigorous  than  most  people's 
principles.  The  dews  of  her  loving  kindness  descended  on  me 
in  a  shower,  and  it  was  some  little  time  before  I  began  to  feel 
a  chill. 

Not  the  least  remarkable  feature  of  No.  2  was  its  back  view. 
The  window  of  my  room  came  down  almost  to  the  floor.  It 
"commanded"  an  immense  zinc  cistern — George,  by  name — a 
Virginia  Creeper  groping  along  a  brick  wall,  similar  cisterns 
smalling  into  the  distance,  other  brick  walls  and  scores  of  back 
windows.  Once,  after  contemplating  this  odd  landscape  for  some 
little  time,  it  occurred  to  me  to  speculate  what  the  back  view 
from  the  House  of  Life  was  like;  but  I  failed  to  conceive 
the  smallest  notion  of  it.  I  rarely  drew  my  curtains,  and,  oddly 
enough,  when  I  did  so,  was  usually  in  a  vacant  or  dismal  mood. 
My  lights  were  electric.  One  simply  twisted  a  tiny  ivory  button. 
At  first  their  clear  and  coloured  globes,  set  like  tiny  tulips  in 
a  candelabra,  charmed  my  fancy.  But,  such  is  custom,  I  soon 
wearied  of  them,  and  pined  for  the  slim,  living  flame  of  candles 
— even  for  my  coarse  old  night-light  swimming  in  its  grease  in  a 
chipped  blue  and  white  saucer. 


272 


Chapter  Thirty-Three 

MRS  MONNERIE  had  rifled  her  collections  for  my  use — 
pygmy  Venetian  glass,  a  silver-gilt  breakfast  and  tea 
service,  pygmy  porcelain.  There  were  absurd  little 
mechanical  knick-knacks — piping  birds,  a  maddening  little  operatic 
clock  of  which  I  at  last  managed  to  break  the  mainspring,  a 
musical  chair,  and  so  on.  My  bath  was  of  jade ;  my  table  a  long 
one  of  ebony  inlaid  with  ivory,  with  puffing  cherub  faces  at  each 
corner  representing  the  four  winds.  My  own  few  possessions, 
I  must  confess,  looked  not  only  worn  but  provincial  by  comparison. 
But  I  never  surprised  myself  actually  talking  to  any  of  Mrs 
Monneries's  exquisite  novelties  as  to  my  other  dumb,  old,  wooden 
friends.     She  delighted  in  them   far  more  than   I. 

I  suppose,  really  to  enjoy  such  pomp  and  luxury,  one  should 
be  positively  born  in  the  purple ;  and  then,  I  suppose,  one  must 
<be  careful  that  the  dye  does  not  go  to  the  bone.  Whether  or 
not,  I  have  long  since  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  am  vulgar 
by  nature — like  my  mother  tongue.  And  at  times,  in  spite  of 
my  relief  at  being  free  of  the  blackness  that  had  craped  in  my 
last  days  at  Beechwood,  I  often  found  myself  hungering  for 
my  Bowater  parlour — even  for  its  smell.  Another  thing  I 
learned  gradually  at  No.  2  was  that  I  had  been  desperately 
old-fashioned ;  and  that  is,  to  some  extent,  to  belong  to  the 
dead. 

Mrs  Monnerie's  chief  desire,  no  doubt,  was  to  give  her  new 
knick-knack  a  suitable  setting.  But  it  may  also  have  reminded 
her  childlessness — for  she,  too,  like  Mrs  Bowater,  was  "nothing 
much  better  than  an  aunt"' — of  her  childhood.  Of  course  I 
affected  as  much  pleasure  in  it  as  I  could,  and  was  really  grateful. 
But  she  greatly  disliked  being  thanked  for  anything,  and  would 
blandly  shut  her  eyes  at  the  least  manifestation  of  gratitude. 
"Humour  me,  humour  me,  humour  me,"  she  once  petulantly 
nodded  at  me ;  "there  are  at  least  a  hundred  prayers  in  the 
Prayer   Book,   my   pet,   to   one   thanksgiving,   and   that's   human 

273 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

nature  all  over."  It  was  what  my  frame  must  have  cost  that 
scandalized  me.  When,  one  day,  after  rhapsodizing  (not  without 
a  shudder)  over  a  cape  and  hat,  which  she  had  given  me, 
composed  solely  of  the  shimmering  emerald  feathers  of  the  hum- 
ming-bird, I  rather  tactlessly  reminded  her  of  my  £110  a  year, 
and  of  my  determination  to  live  within  it,  her  eyelids  pinched  me 
a  glance  as  if  I  had  explained  in  public  that  I  had  been  bitten 
by  a  flea. 

Yet  as  time  went  on,  a  peculiar  affection  sprang  up  in  me 
for  this  crowded  and  lonely  old  woman.  It  has  survived  sore 
trials.  She  was  by  turns  generous  and  mean,  honeyed  and 
cantankerous,  impulsive  and  scheming.  Like  Mrs  Bowater,  she 
disapproved  of  the  world  in  general,  and  yet  with  how  different 
a  result.  A  restless,  darting  mind  lay  hidden  behind  the  great 
mask  of  her  countenance,  with  its  heavy-lidded  eyes  and  tower 
of  hair.  She  loved  to  sit  indolently  peering,  musing,  and  gos- 
siping, twiddling  the  while  perhaps  some  little  antique  toy  in 
her  capacious  lap.  I  can  boast,  at  any  rate,  that  I  was  a  spell- 
bound listener,  and  devoured  her  peculiar  wandering,  satirical  talk 
as  if  it  had  been  manna  from  heaven. 

It  was  the  old,  old  story.  Talking  to  me  was  the  next  most 
private  thing  to  talking  to  herself;  and  I  think  she  enjoyed 
for  a  while  the  company  of  so  queer  a  confessor.  Once,  I 
remember,  she  confided  to  me  the  whole  story  of  a  girlish  love 
affair,  at  least  forty  years  old.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes 
as  I  watched  her ;  she  looked  so  freshened  and  demure  and 
spirited.  It  was  as  if  she  were  her  own  twenties  just  dressed 
up.  But  she  had  a  dry  and  acrid  tongue,  and  spared  nothing 
and  nobody.  To  her  and  to  Mrs  Bowater  I  owe  nearly  all  my 
stock  of  worldly  wisdom.  And  now  I  shall  never  have  time,  I 
suppose,  to  sort  it  out. 

Mr  Monnerie,  as  Fleming  confided  in  me  one  day — and  the 
aristocracy  was  this  extremely  reticent  and  contemptuous  creature's 
favourite  topic  of  conversation — Mr  Monnerie  had  been  a  banker, 
and  had  made  a  late  and  dazzling  marriage ;  for  Mrs  Monnerie's 
blood  was  as  blue  as  Caddis  Bay  on  a  cloudless  morning.  I 
asked  Fleming  if  she  had  ever  seen  "Lord  B.,"  and  what  kind 
of  man  he  was.  She  never  had ;  but  remarked  obscurely  that 
he  must  have  lived  mainly  on  porridge,  he  had  sown  so  many 
wild  oats. 
274 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

This  information   reminded  me  of   an  old  rhyme  I  had  once 
learned  as  a  child,  and  used  to  shout  about  the  house : — 

"Come  all  you  young  men,  with  your  wicked  ways; 
Sow  your  wild,  wild  oats  in  your  youthful  days; 
That  we  may  live  happy  when  we  grow  old — 
Happy,   and  happy,   when   we   grow  old: 
The  day  is  far  spent,  the  night's  coming  on; 
So  give  us  your  arm,  and  we'll  joggle  along — joggle 
and  joggle  and  joggle  along." 

Fleming  herself,  I  learned,  had  come  from  Ash,  and  was 
therefore,  I  suppose,  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  family,  though  she  was 
far  from  stupid  and  rather  elegant  in  shape.  Because,  I  suppose, 
I  did  not  like  her,  I  was  rather  aggrieved  she  had  been  born 
in  Kent.  Mr  and  Mrs  Monnerie,  she  told  me,  had  had  no  children. 
The  fair  young  man,  Percy  Maudlen,  with  the  tired  smile  and 
beautiful  shoes,  who  came  to  tea  or  luncheon  at  No.  2  at  least 
once  a  week,  was  Mrs  Monnerie's  only  nephew  by  blood ;  and 
the  still  fairer  Susan  Monnerie,  who  used  to  float  into  my  room 
ever  and  anon  like  a  Zephyr,  was  the  only  one  Mrs  Monnerie 
cared  to  see  of  her  three  nieces  by  marriage.  And  yet  the 
other  two,  when  they  were  invited  to  luncheon,  were  far  more 
docile  and  considerate  in  the  opinions  and  sentiments  they  ex- 
pressed. That  seemed  so  curious  to  me :  there  was  no  doubt 
that  Mrs  Monnerie  belonged  to  the  aristocracy,  and  yet  there 
always  appeared  to  be  quarrels  going  on  in  the  family — apart, 
of  course,  from  births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  which  seemed 
of  little  consequence.  She  enjoyed  relatives  in  every  county  in 
England  and  Scotland ;  while  I  had  not  one,  now,  so  far  as  I 
knew,  not  even  in  Kent. 

Marvell,  the  butler — he  had  formerly  been  Mr  Monnerie's 
valet — was  another  familiar  object  of  my  speculations.  His  rather 
solemn,  clean-shaven  countenance  and  steady  grey  eyes  sug- 
gested a  severe  critic  of  mankind.  Yet  he  seemed  bent  only 
on  giving  pleasure  and  smoothing  things  over,  and  stooped  my 
dish  of  sliced  cherries  or  apricots  over  my  shoulder  with  a 
gesture  that  was  in  itself  the  cream  of  flattery.  It  astonished 
me  to  hear  that  he  had  a  grown-up  son  in  India;  and  though  I 
never  met  Mrs  Marvell,  I  felt  a  prodigious  respect  for  her. 

I  would  look  up  and  see  him  standing  so  smooth  and  benevolent 

275 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

behind  Mrs  Monnerie's  chair  that  he  reminded  me  of  my  bishop, 
and  I  doubt  if  ever  she  crisply  uttered  his  delightful  name 
but  it  recalled  the  pleasant  chime  of  a  poem  which  my  mother 
had  taught  me:  The  Nymph  Complaining  of  the  Death  of  her 
Fazvn.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  a  long  talk  with  Mr  Marvell 
— any  time  of  the  day  when  he  wasn't  a  butler,  I  mean — but 
the  opportunity  never  came. 

One  day,  when  he  had  left  us  to  ourselves,  I  ventured  to 
quote  a  stanza  of  this  poem  to  Mrs  Monnerie : — 

"With  sweetest  milk   and  sugar   first 
I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed ; 
And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 
It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they — 
It  had  so  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 
I  blushed  to  see  its   foot  more  soft 
And    white — shall    I    say  ? — than    my    hand, 
Nay,  any  lady's  in  the  land.  .  .  ." 

"Charming,  charming,  Poppet,"  she  cooed,  much  amused, 
pushing  in  a  nut  for  Chakka.  "Many  shades  whiter  than  your 
wrinkled  old  claw,  you  old  wretch.  Another  sagacious  old  bird, 
my  dear,  though  past  blushing,  I  fear,  at  any  lady's  hand." 

Nothing  would  content  her  but  that  I  must  recite  my  bon  mot 
again  when  her  nephew  Percy  dandled  in  to  tea  that  afternoon. 
He  sneered  down  on  me  with  his  pale  eyes,  and  with  finger 
and  thumb  exposed  yet  another  inch  of  his  silk  sock,  but  made 
no  comment. 

"Manners,  my  dear  Percy,  maketh  man,"  said  his  aunt.  "Con- 
gratulate Miss  M." 

If  Percy  Maudlen  had  had  no  manners  at  all,  I  think  I 
should  at  that  moment  have  seen  the  pink  tip  of  his  tongue; 
for  if  ever  any  human  being  detested  my  small  person  it  was 
he.  For  very  good  reasons,  probably,  though  I  never  troubled 
1o  inquire  into  them,  I  disliked  him,  too,  beyond  expression, 
lie  was,  of  course,  a  superior  young  man  with  a  great  many 
similar  ancestors  looking  out  of  his  face,  yet  he  resembled  a 
weasel.  But  Susan  Monnerie — the  very  moment  I  saw  her  I 
loved  her;  just  as  one  loves  afield  of  buttercups  or  a  bush  of 
may.  For  some  little  time  she  seemed  to  regard  me  as  I  suppose 
276 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

a  linnet  regards  a  young  quckoo  that  has  been  hatched  out  in  her 
nest  (though,  of  course,  a  squab  cuckoo  is  of  much  the  same  size 
as  its  fostermother).  Hut  she  gradually  grew  accustomed  to 
me,  and  even  realized  at  last  that  I  was  something  a  little  more 
— and  also  perhaps  less — human  than  either  Chakka  or  Cherry 
or  a  Dresden  china  shepherdess. 

I  would  look  at  her  just  for  pleasure's  sake.  Her  hair  was 
of  the  colour  of  undyed  silk,  with  darker  strands  in  it;  her 
skin  pale;  and  she  had  an  odd  little  stutter  in  her  light  young 
voice  when  she  was  excited.  1  would  often  compare  her  with 
Fanny.  What  curious  differences  there  were  between  them. 
She  was  graceful,  but  as  if  she  had  been  taught  to  be.  Unlike 
Fanny,  she  was  not  so  fascinatingly  just  a  beautiful  body — with 
that  sometimes  awful  Someone  looking  out  of  its  windows.  There 
was  a  lovely  delicacy  in  her,  as  if,  absurd  though  it  may  sound, 
every  bit  of  her  had  been  selected,  actually  picked  out,  from 
the  finest  materials.  Perhaps  it  was  her  food  and  drink  that  had 
helped  to  make  her  so;  for  I  don't  think  Miss  Stebbings's  diet  was 
more  than  wholesome,  or  that  following  the  sea  in  early  life  makes 
a  man  rich  enough  to  afford  many  dainties  for  his  children.  Any- 
how, there  was  nothing  man-made  in  Fanny;  and  if  there  are 
women-shaped  mermaids  I  know  what  looks  will  be  seen  in  their 
faces. 

However  that  may  be,  a  keen,  roving  spirit  dwelt  in  Susan's 
clear,  blue  eyes.  I  never  discovered  in  her  any  malice  or  vanity, 
and  this,  I  think,  frequently  irritated  Mrs  Monnerie.  Susan,  too, 
used  to  ask  me  perfectly  sane  and  ordinary  questions ;  and  I  cannot 
describe  what  a  flattery  it  was.  I  had  always  supposed  that  men 
and  women  were  intended  to  talk  openly  to  one  another  in  this 
world ;  but  it  was  an  uncommonly  rare  luxury  for  me  at  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie's.  I  could  talk  freely  enough  to  Susan,  and  told  her  a  good 
deal  about  my  early  days,  though  I  kept  my  life  at  Beechwood 
Hill  more  or  less  to  myself. 

And  that  reminds  me  that  Mrs  I>o water  proved  to  have  been  a 
good  prophet.  It  was  one  day  at  luncheon.  Mrs  Monnerie  hap- 
pened to  cast  a  glance  at  the  Morning  Post  newspaper  which  lay 
open  on  a  chair  near  by.  showing  in  tall  type  at  the  top  of  the  col- 
umn, "Sudden  Death  of  Sir  Jasper  Goodge."'  Sir  Jasper  Goodge, 
whose  family  history,  it  seemed,  was  an  open  book  to  her,  reminded 

277 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

her  whimsically  of  another  tragedy.  She  put  back  her  head  and, 
surveying  me  blandly  as  I  sat  up  beside  her,  inquired  if  I  had 
known  at  all  intimately  that  unfortunate  young  man,  Mr  Crimble. 

"I  remember  him  bobbing  and  sidling  at  me  that  delightful  after- 
noon when — what  do  you  think  of  it,  Susan? — Poppet  and  I  dis- 
covered in  each  other  an  unfashionable  taste  for  the  truth !  A 
bazaar  in  aid  of  the  Pollacke  Blanket  Fund,  or  something  of  the 
kind." 

The  recollection  seemed  to  have  amused  her  so  much  that  for 
the  moment  I  held  my  breath  and  ignored  her  question. 

"But  why  was  Mr  Crimble  unfortunate?"  inquired  Susan, 
attempting  to  make  Cherry  beg  for  a  bread-crumb.  I  glanced  in 
consternation  at  Marvell,  who  at  the  moment  was  bringing  the  cof- 
fee things  into  the  room.  But  he  appeared  to  be  uninterested  in 
Mr  Crimble. 

"Mr  Crimble  was  unfortunate,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie 
complacently,  "because  he  cut  his  throat." 

"Ach!  how  horrible.  How  can  you  say  such  things!  Get 
down,  you  little  silly!  Please,  Aunt  Alice,  there  must  be  some- 
thing pleasanter  to  talk  about  than  that  ?  Everybody  knows  about 
the  hideous  old  Sir  Jasper  Goodge ;  so  it  doesn't  much  matter  what 
one  says  of  him.  But  .  .  ."  In  spite  of  her  command  the  little 
dog  still  gloated  on  her  fingers. 

"There  may  be  things  pleasanter,  my  dear  Susan,"  returned  Mrs 
Monnerie  complacently,  "but  there  are  few  so  illuminating.  In 
Greek  tragedy,  I  used  to  be  told,  all  such  horrors  have  the  effect 
of  what  is  called  a  purgation.  Did  Mr  Crimble  seem  that  kind  of 
young  man,  my  dear?     And  why  was  he  so  impetuous?" 

"I  think,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  said  I,  "he  was  in  trouble." 

"H'm,"  said  she.  "He  had  a  very  sallow  look,  I  remember.  So 
he  discussed  his  troubles?     But  not  with  you,  my  fairy?" 

"Surely,  Aunt  Alice,"  exclaimed  Susan  hotly,  "it  isn't  quite  fair 
or  nice  to  bring  back  such  ghastly  memories.  Why,"  she  touched 
my  hand  with  the  tips  of  her  light  fingers,  "she  is  quite  cold  al- 
ready." 

"Poppet's  hands  are  always  cold,"  replied  her  aunt  imperturba- 
bly.  "And  I  suspect  that  she  and  I  know  more  about  this  wicked 
world  than  has  brought  shadows  to  your  young  brow.  We'll  re- 
turn to  Mr  Crimble,  my  dear,  when  Susan  is  butterflying  elsewhere. 
She  is  so  shockingly  easily  shocked." 
278 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

But  it  was  Susan  herself  who  returned  to  the  subject.  She  came 
into  my  room  where  I  sat  reading — a  collection  of  the  tiniest  little 
books  in  the  most  sumptuous  gilt  morocco  had  been  yet  another  of 
Mrs  Monnerie's  kindnesses — and  she  stood  for  a  moment  musing 
out  through  my  silk  window  blinds  at  the  vast  zinc  tank  on  the 
roof. 

"Was  that  true?"  she  said  at  last.  "Did  you  really  know  some 
one  who  killed  himself?     Who  was  he?     What  was  he  like?'' 

"He  was  a  young  man — in  his  twenty-ninth  year,"  I  replied 
automatically,  "dark,  short,  with  gold  spectacles,  a  clergyman. 
He  was  the  curate  at  St  Peter's — Beechwood,  you  know."  I 
was  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  I  might  be  overheard. 

It  was  extraordinary  how  swiftly  Mr  Crimble  had  faded  into 
a  vanishing  shadow.  From  the  very  instant  of  his  death  the  world 
had  begun  to  adjust  itself  to  his  absence.  And  now  nothing  but 
a  memory — a  black,  sad  memory. 

But  Susan's  voice  interrupted  these  faint  musings.  "A  clergy- 
man !"  she  was  repeating.     "But  why — why  did  he — do  that?" 

"They  said,  melancholia.  I  suppose  it  was  just  impossible — 
or  seemed  impossible — for  him  to  go  on  living." 

"But  what  made  him  melancholy?  How  awful.  And  how 
can  Aunt  Alice  have  said  it  like  that  ?" 

"But  surely,"  argued  I.  in  my  old  contradictory  fashion,  and 
spying  about  for  a  path  of  evasion,  "it's  better  to  call  things  by 
their  proper  names.  What  is  the  body,  after  all?  Not  that  I 
mean  one  has  any  right  to — to  not  die  in  one's  own  bed." 

"And  do  you  really  think  like  that  ? — the  body  of  no  importance  ? 
You?  Why,  Miss  M.,  Aunt  Alice  calls  you  her  'pocket  Venus,' 
and  she  means  it,  too,  in  her  own  sly  way." 

"It's  very  kind  of  her,"  said  I,  breathing  more  freely.  "Some 
one  I  know  always  calls  me  Midgetina,  or  Miss  Midge,  anything 
of  that  sort.  I  don't  mean,  Miss  Monnerie,  that  it  doesn't  matter 
what  we  are  called.  Why,  if  that  were  so,  there  wouldn't  be  any 
Society  at  all,  would  there?  We  should  all  be — well — anony- 
mous." Deep  inside  I  felt  myself  smile.  "Not  that  that  makes 
much  difference  to  good  poetry." 

Susan  sighed.  "How  zigzaggedly  you  talk.  What  has  poetry 
to  do  with  Mr  Crimble? — that  was  his  name,  wasn't  it?" 

"Well,  it  hasn't  very  much,"  I  confessed.  "He  hadn't  the  time 
for  it." 

279 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Susan  seated  herself  on  a  cushion  on  the  floor — and  with  how 
sharp  a  stab  reminded  me  of  Fanny  and  the  old,  care-free  days 
of  Wuthcring  Heights. 

Surely — in  spite  of  Fanny — life  had  definitely  taken  a  tinge  of 
Miss  Bronte's  imagination  since  then.  But  it  was  only  the  languor 
of  Susan's  movements,  and  that  because  she  seemed  a  little 
tired,  rather  than  merely  indolent.  And  if  from  Fanny's  eyes  had 
now  stooped  a  serpent  and  now  a  blinded  angel ;  from  these  clear 
blue  ones  looked  only  a  human  being  like  myself.  Even  as  I 
write  that  "like  myself,"  I  ponder.     But  let  it  stay. 

"So  you  really  did  know  him?"  Susan  persisted.  "And  it 
doesn't  seem  a  nightmare  even  to  think  of  him?  And  who,  I  say, 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  go  on  living?"  So  intense  was  her 
absorption  in  these  questions  that  when  they  ceased  her  hand? 
tightened  round  her  knees,  and  her  small  mouth  remained  ajar. 

"You  said  'what'  just  now,"  I  prevaricated,  looking  up  at  her. 

At  this  her  blue  eyes  opened  so  wide  I  broke  into  a  little  laugh. 

"No,  no,  no,  Miss  Monnerie,"  I  hastened  to  explain,  "not  me. 
It  isn't  my  story,  though  I  was  in  it — and  to  blame.  But  please, 
if  you  would  be  so  kind,  don't  mention  it  again  to  Mrs  Monnerie, 
and  don't  think  about  it  any  more." 

"Not  think  about  it!  You  must.  Besides,  thoughts  sometimes 
think  themselves.  I  always  supposed  that  things  like  that 
only  happened  to  quite— to  different  people,  you  know.     Was  he?" 

"Different?"  I  couldn't  follow  her.  "He  was  the  curate  of  St 
Peter's — a  friend  of  the  Pollackes." 

"Oh,  yes,  the  Pollackes,"  said  she;  and  having  glanced  at  me 
again,  said  no  more. 

The  smallest  confidence,  I  find,  is  a  short  cut  to  friendship. 
And  after  this  little  conversation  there  was  no  ice  to  break  between 
Susan  Monnerie  and  myself,  and  she  often  championed  me  in  my 
little  difficulties — even  if  only  by  her  silence. 


280 


Chapter  Thirty-Four 


MISS  MONNERIE'S  visits  were  less  punctual  though  more 
frequent  than  Percy  Maudlen's.  "And  where  is  the 
toadlet  ?*'  I  heard  him  drawl  one  afternoon  as  I  was 
being  carried  downstairs  hy  the  light-footed  Fleming,  on  the 
padded  tray  which  Mrs  Monnerie  had  had  made  for  the  purpose. 

"The  toadlet,  my  dear  Percy,  is  about  to  take  a  little  gentle 
exercise  with  me  in  the  garden,  and  you  shall  accompany  us.  If 
you  were  the  kind  of  fairy-tale  hero  I  used  to  read  of  in  my 
nursery,  you  would  discover  the  charm,  and  live  happy  ever  after. 
But  I  see  nothing  of  the  heroic  in  you,  and  little  of  the  hereafter. 
Miss  M.  is  a  feast  of  mercies." 

"I  I'm.  Providence  packs  his  mercies  into  precious  small 
quarters  at  times,"  he  yawned. 

"Which  suggests  an  uncivil  speculation,"  replied  his  aunt,  "on 
the  size  of  your  hat." 

"But  candidly,  Aunt  Alice,"  he  retorted,  "is  your  little  attachee 
quite  all  there — I  mean,  all  of  her  that  there  is?  Personally  I 
wouldn't  touch  her,  if  I  could  help  it,  with  a  pair  of  tongs.  .  .  . 
A  nasty  trick  !" 

Then,  "Hah!"  cried  Mrs  Monnerie  in  a  large,  pleasant  voice, 
"here  is  Miss  M.  Percy  has  been  exposing  a  wounded  heart, 
precious  one.  He  is  hurt  because  you  look  at  him  as  if  there 
were  positively  nothing  more  of  him  than  what  is  there  to  see." 

"Not  at  all.  Aunt  Alice,"  Percy  drawled,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
cane.  "It  was  for  precisely  the  opposite  reason.  Who  knows 
you  ain't  a  witch.  Miss  M. ?  Distilled?  Heavens,  Aunt  Alice! 
you  are  not  bringing  Cherry  too?" 

Yes,  Cherry  was  coming  too,  with  his  globular  eye  and  sneering 
nose.  And  so  poor  Percy,  with  a  cold  little  smile  on  his  fine 
pale  features,  had  to  accommodate  himself  to  Mrs  Monnerie's 
leisurely  pace,  and  she  to  mine,  while  Cherry  disdainfully  shuffled 
in  our  rear.     We  were  a  singular  quartette,  though  there  were 

281 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

only  two  or  three  small  children  in  the  palisaded  garden  to 
enjoy  the  spectacle;  and  they,  after  a  few  polite  and  muffled 
giggles,  returned  to  their  dolls. 

It  was  a  stifling  afternoon.  As  I  trod  the  yellow  gravel 
the  quivering  atmosphere  all  but  blinded  me  with  its  reflected 
glare.  The  only  sounds  to  be  heard  were  the  clang  of  a  milk- 
man's hand-cart,  and  the  pirouettes  of  a  distant  piano. 

"And  what,"  Mrs  Monnerie  suddenly  inquired,  looking  down 
on  me,  with  mauve-tinted  cheek,  from  under  her  beribanded, 
long-handled  parasol,  "what  is  Miss  M.  thinking  about?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was  walking  at  that  moment  in  imagina- 
tion with  Mrs  Bowater  at  Lyme  Regis,  but  I  seized  the  op- 
portunity of  hastening  round  from  between  aunt  and  nephew 
so  that  I  could  screen  myself  from  the  sun  in  Mrs  Monnerie's 
ample  shadow,  and  inquired  why  London  gardeners  were  so 
much  attached  to  geraniums,  lobelias,  calceolarias,  and  ice-plants  ? 
Mightn't  one  just  as  well  paint  the  border,  Mrs  Monnerie, 
red,  yellow,  and  blue  ?     Then  it  would  last — rain,  snow,  anything. 

"Now  I'll  wager,  Percy,  you  hadn't  noticed  that"  said  Mrs 
Monnerie  in  triumph. 

"I  make  it  a  practice,"  he  replied,  "never  to  notice  the  obvious. 
It  is  merely  a  kind  of  least  common  denominator,  as  I  believe 
you  call  'em,  and,"  he  wafted  away  a  yawn  with  his  glove,  "I 
take  no  interest  in  vulgar  fractions." 

I  took  a  little  look  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  and 
wished  that  as  a  child  I  had  paid  more  heed  to  my  arithmetic 
lessons.  "Look,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  I  cried  piteously,  "poor  Cherry's 
tongue  is  dangling  right  out  of  his  head.  He  looks  so  hot  and 
tired." 

She  swept  me  a  radiant,  if  contorted,  gleam.  "Percy,  would 
you  take  pity  on  poor  dear  Cherry?  Twice  round,  I  think, 
will  be  as  much  as  I  can  comfortably  manage." 

So  Percy  had  to  take  poor  dear  Cherry  into  his  arms,  just 
like  a  baby ;  and  the  quartette  to  all  appearance  became  a  trio. 

But  my  existence  at  No.  2  was  not  always  so  monotonous 
as  that.  Mrs  Monnerie,  in  spite  of  her  age,  her  ebony  cane, 
and  a  tendency  to  breathlessness,  was  extremely  active  and  alert. 
If  life  is  a  fountain,  she  preferred  to  be  one  of  the  larger  bubbles 
as  near  as  possible  to  its  summit.  She  almost  succeeded  in 
making  me  a  minute  replica  of  herself.  We  shared  the  same 
282 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

manicurist,  milliner,  modiste,  and  coiffeur.  And  since  it  was 
not  always  practicable  for  Mahometta  to  be  carried  off  to  these 
delectable  mountains,  they  were  persuaded  to  attend  upon  her, 
and  that  as  punctually  as  the  fawn- faced  man,  Mr  Godde, 
who  came  to  wind  the  clocks. 

Whole  mornings  were  spent  in  conclave  in  Mrs  Monnerie's 
boudoir — Susan  sometimes  of  our  company.  Julius  Caesar,  so 
my  little  Roman  history  told  me,  had  hesitated  over  the  crossing 
of  one  Rubicon.  Mrs  Monnerie  and  I  confabulated  over  the 
fording  of  a  dozen  of  its  tributaries  a  day.  A  specialist — a 
singularly  bald  man  in  a  long  black  coat — was  called  in.  He 
eyed  me  this  way,  he  eyed  me  that — with  far  more  deference  than 
I  imagine  Mr  Pellew  can  have  paid  me  at  my  christening.  He 
assured  Mrs  Monnerie  of  his  confirmed  belief  that  the  mode  of 
the  moment  was  not  of  the  smallest  consequence  so  far  as  I 
was  concerned.  "The  hard,  small  hat,"  he  smiled ;  "the  tight- 
fitting  sleeve !"  And  yet,  to  judge  by  the  clothes  he  did  recom- 
mend, I  must  have  been  beginning  to  look  a  pretty  dowd  at  Mrs 
Bowater's. 

"But  even  if  Madam  prefers  to  dress  in  a  style  of  her  own 
choice,"  he  explained,  "the  difference,  if  she  will  understand, 
must  still  be  in  the   fashion." 

But  he  himself — though  Mrs  Monnerie,  I  discovered  after 
he  was  gone,  had  not  even  noticed  that  he  was  bald — he  himself 
interested  me  far. more  than  his  excellent  advice;  and  not  least 
when  he  drew  some  papers  out  of  a  pocket-book,  and  happened 
to  let  fall  on  the  carpet  the  photograph  of  a  fat  little  boy  with 
an  immense  mop  of  curls.  So  men — quite  elderly,  practical  men, 
can  blush,  I  thought  to  myself ;  for  Dr  Phelps  had  rather  flushed 
than  blushed ;  and  my  father  used  only  to  get  red. 

Since  nothing,  perhaps,  could  make  me  more  exceptional  in 
appearance  than  I  had  been  made  by  Providence,  I  fell  in 
with  all  Mrs  Monnerie's  fancies,  and  wore  what  she  pleased — 
pushing  out  of  mind  as  well  as  I  could  all  thought  of  bills.  I 
did  more  than  that.  I  really  began  to  enjoy  dressing  myself 
up  as  if  I  were  my  own  doll,  and  when  alone  I  would  sit  some- 
times in  a  luxurious  trance,  like  a  lily  in  a  pot.  Yet  I  did 
not  entirely  abandon  my  old  little  Bowater  habit  of  indoor 
exercise.  When  I  was  alone  in  my  room  I  would  sometimes 
skip.     And  on  one  of  Fleming's  afternoons  "out"  I  even  fur- 

283 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bished  up  what  I  could  remember  of  my  four  kinds  of  Kentish 
hopscotch,  with  a  slab  of  jade  for  dump.  But  in  the  very 
midst  of  such  recreations  I  would  surprise  myself  lost  in  a 
kind  of  vacancy.  Apart  from  its  humans  and  its  furniture, 
No.  2  was  an  empty  house. 

I  do  not  mean  that  Mrs  Monnerie  was  concerned  only  with 
externals.  Sir  William  Forbes-Smith  advised  that  a  little  white 
meat  should  enrich  my  usual  diet  of  milk  and  fruit,  and  that  I 
should  have  sea-salt  baths.  The  latter  were  more  enjoyable  than 
the  former,  though  both,  no  doubt,  helped  to  bring  back  the 
strength  sapped  out  of  me  by  the  West  End. 

My  cheekbones  gradually  rounded  their  angles ;  a  livelier  colour 
came  to  lip  and  skin,  and  I  began  to  be  as  self-conscious  as  a 
Igenuine  beauty.  One  twilight,  I  remember,  I  had  slipped  across 
from  out  of  my  bath  for  a  pinch  of  the  "crystals"  which  Mrs 
Monnerie  had  presented  me  with  that  afternoon;  for  my  nose, 
also,  was  accustoming  itself  to  an  artificial  life.  An  immense 
cheval  looking-glass  stood  there,  and  at  one  and  the  same  instant 
I  saw  not  only  my  own  slim,  naked,  hastening  figure  reflected 
in  its  placid  deeps,  but,  behind  me,  that  of  Fleming,  shadowily 
engrossed.  With  a  shock  I  came  to  a  standstill,  helplessly  meet- 
ing her  peculiar  stare.  Only  seven  yards  or  so  of  dusky  air 
divided  us.  Caught  back  by  this  unexpected  encounter,  for 
one  immeasurable  moment  I  stood  thus,  as  if  she  and  I  were 
mere  shapes  in  a  picture,  and  reality  but  a  thought. 

Then  suddenly  she  recovered  herself,  and  with  a  murmur  of 
apology  was  gone.  Huddled  up  in  my  towel,  I  sat  motionless, 
shrunken  for  a  while  almost  to  nothing  in  the  dense  sense  of 
shame  that  had  swept  over  me.  Then  suddenly  I  flung  myself 
on  my  knees,  and  prayed — though  what  about  and  to  whom  I 
cannot  say.     After  which  I  went  back  and  bathed  myself  again. 

The  extravagances  of  Youth!  No  doubt,  the  worst  pang 
was  that  though  vaguely  I  knew  that  my  most  secret  solitude 
had  been  for  a  while  destroyed,  that  long  intercepted  glance  of 
half-derisive  admiration  had  filled  me  with  something  sweeter 
than  distress.  If  only  T  knew  what  common-sized  people  really 
feel  like  in  similar  circumstances.  Biographies  tell  me  little; 
a.nd  can  one  (rust  what  is  said  in  novels?  The  only  practical 
result  of  tin's  encounter  was  that  I  emptied  all  Mrs  Monnerie's 
priceless  crystals  forthwith  into  my  bath,  and  vowed  never, 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

never  again  to   desert   plain    water.     So,    for   one  evening,   my 
room  smelt  like  a  garden  in   Damascus. 

As  for  Fleming,  she  never,  of  course,  referred  to  this  incident, 
but  our  small  talk  was  even  smaller  than  before.  If,  indeed, 
to  Percy,  "toadlet"  was  the  aptest  tag  for  me;  for  Fleming,  I 
fancy,  "stuck-up"  sufficed.  Instinct  told  her  that  she  was  only 
by  courtesy  a  lady's-maid. 

Less  for  her  own  sake  than  for  mine,  Mrs  Monnerie  and  I 
scoured  London  for  amusement,  even  though  she  was  irritated 
a  little  by  my  preference  for  the  kind  which  may  be  called 
instructive.  The  truth  is,  that  in  all  this  smooth  idleness  and 
luxury  a  hunger  for  knowledge  had  seized  on  me;  as  if  (cat  to 
grass)  my  mind  were  in  search  of  an  antidote. 

Mrs  Monnerie  had  little  difficulty  in  securing  "private  views." 
She  must  have  known  everybody  that  is  anybody — as  I  once 
read  of  a  Countess  in  a  book.  And  I  suppose  there  is  not  a  very 
large  number  of  this  kind  of  person.  Whenever  our  social 
engagements  permitted,  we  visited  the  show  places,  galleries, 
and  museums.  Unlike  the  rest  of  London.  I  gazed  at  Amen- 
hotep's  Mummy  in  the  late  dusk  of  a  summer  evening ;  and  we 
had  much  to  say  to  one  another ;  though  but  one  whiff  of  the 
huge  round  library  gave  me  a  violent  headache.  When  the 
streets  had  to  be  faced,  Fleming  came  with  us  in  the  carriage, 
and  I  was  disguised  to  look  as  much  like  a  child  as  possible — 
a  process  that  made  me  feel  at  least  twenty  years  older.  The 
Tower  of  London,  the  Zoo,  Westminster  Abbey,  St  1 'aid's — 
each  in  turn  fell  an  early  prey  to  my  hunger  for  learning  and 
experience.  As  for  the  Thames;  the  very  sight  of  it  seemed 
to  wash  my  small  knowledge  of  English  history  clear  as  crystal. 

Mrs  Monnerie  yawned  her  way  on — though  my  comments  on 
these  marvels  of  human  enterprise  occasionally  amused  her. 
I  made  amends,  too,  by  accompanying  her  to  less  well-advertised 
show-places,  and  patiently  sat  with  her  while  she  fondled  un- 
set and  antique  gems  in  a  jeweller's,  or  inspected  the  china, 
miniatures,  and  embroideries  in  private  collections.  If  the  mere 
look  of  the  books  in  the  British  Museum  gave  me  a  headache, 
it  is  curious  that  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  at  Madame  Tussaud's 
Wax  Works  did  not.  And  yet  I  don't  know;  life  itself  had 
initiated   me    into   this    freemasonry.     I    surveyed    the    guillotine 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

without  a  shudder,  and  eyed  Mr  Hare  and  Charles  Peace 
with  far  less  discomposure  than  General  Tom  Thumb,  or  even 
Robert  Burns  in  the  respectable  gallery  above.  My  one  mis- 
fortune was  that  I  could  look  at  no  murderer  without  instantly 
recomposing  the  imaginary  scene  of  his  crime  within  my  mind. 
And  as  after  a  while  Mrs  Monnerie  decided  to  rest  on  a  chair 
set  for  her  by  the  polite  attendant  under  the  scaffold,  and  we 
had  the  Chamber  nearly  to  ourselves,  I  wandered  on  alone,  and 
perhaps  supped  rather  too  full  of  horrors  for  one  evening. 

Mrs  Monnerie  would  often  question  me.  "Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  that,  Mammetinka?"  or,  "Now,  then,  my  inexhaustible 
little  Miss  Aristotle,  discourse  on  that." 

And  like  a  bullfinch  I  piped  up  in  response  to  the  best  of  my 
ability.  My  answers,  I  fear,  were  usually  evasive.  For  I  had 
begun  to  see  that  she  was  making  experiments  on  my  mind 
and  senses,  as  well  as  on  my  manners  and  body.  She  was  a 
"fancier."  And  one  day  I  ogled  up  at  her  with  the  pert  remark 
that  she  now  possessed  a  pocket  barometer  which  would  do  its 
very  utmost  to  remain  at  31  °,  if  that  was  possible  without  being 
"Very  Dry." 

She  received  this  little  joke  with  extraordinary  good  humour. 
"When  I  come  down  in  the  world,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "and  these 
horrid  anarchists  are  doing  their  best  to  send  us  all  sky-high 
first,  we'll  visit  the  Courts  of  Europe  together,  like  Count 
Boruwlaski.  Do  you  think  you  could  bring  yourself  to  support 
your  old  friend  in  her  declining  years  in  a  declining  age  ?" 

I  smiled  and  touched  her  glove.  "Where  thou  goest,  I  will 
go,"  I  replied;  and  then  could  have  bitten  off  my  tongue  in 
remorse.  "Pah,"  gasped  a  secret  voice,  "so  that's  going  the 
same  way  too,  is  it?" 

Yet  heaven  knows  I  was  not  a  Puritan — and  never  shall 
be.  I  just  adored  things  bright  and  beautiful.  Music,  too,  in 
moderation,  was  my  delight;  and  Susan  Monnerie  with  her 
small,  sweet  voice  would  sometimes  sing  to  me  in  one  room  while 
— in  an  almost  unbearable  homesickness — I  listened  in  another. 
Concerts  in  general,  however,  left  every  muscle  of  my  body 
as  stiff  with  rheumatism  as  it  was  after  my  visit  to  Mr  Moss's 
farm-house.  The  unexpected  blare  of  a  brass  band  simply  froze 
my  spine;  and  a  really  fine  performance  on  the  piano  was  sheer 
torture.  Once,  indeed,  when  Mrs  Monnerie's  carriage  was  one 
286 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  a  mellay  clustered  together  while  the  Queen  drove  by,  in  the 
appalling  clamour  of  the  Lancers'  trombones  and  kettledrums, 
I  fell  prostrate  in  a  kind  of  fit.  So  it  was  my  silly  nerves  that 
cheated  me  of  my  one  and  only  chance  to  huzza  a  Crowned  Head 
not,  if  I  may  say  so  without  disrespect,  so  very  many  sizes  larger 
than  my  own. 

Alas,  Mrs  Monnerie  was  an  enthusiast  for  all  the  pleasures 
of  the  senses.  I  verily  believe  that  it  was  only  my  vanity  which 
prevented  me  from  becoming  as  inordinately  fat  as  Sir  William 
Forbes-Smith's  white  meat  threatened  to  make  me. 

Brightest  novelty  of  all  was  my  first  visit  to  a  theatre — the 
London  night,  the  glare  and  clamour  of  the  streets,  the  packed 
white  rows  of  faces,  the  sea-like  noise  of  talk,  the  glitter,  shimmer, 
dazzle — it  filled  my  veins  with  quicksilver;  my  heart  seemed  to 
be  throbbing  in  my  breast  as  fast  as  Mrs  Monnerie's  watch. 
Fortunately  she  had  remembered  to  take  our  seats  on  the  farther 
side  from  the  brass  and  drums  of  the  orchestra.  I  restrained 
my  shivers ;  the  lights  went  out ;  and  in  the  congregated  gloom 
softly  stole  up  the  curtain  on  the  ballet. 

Perched  up  there  in  the  velvet  obscurity  of  our  box,  I  sur- 
veyed a  woodland  scene,  ruins,  distant  mountains,  a  rocky  stream 
on  which  an  enormous  moon  shone,  and  actually  moved  in  the 
theatrical  heavens.  And  when  an  exquisite  figure  floated,  pale, 
gauzy,  and  a-tiptoe,  into  those  artificial  solitudes,  drenched  with 
filmy  light;  with  a  far  cry  of  "Fanny!"  my  heart  suddenly 
stood  still ;  and  all  the  old  stubborn  infatuation  flooded  heavily 
back  upon  me  once  more. 

Susan  sat  ghostlike,  serenely  smiling.  Percy's  narrow  jaws 
were  working  on  their  hinges  like  those  of  a  rabbit  I  had  seen 
through  my  grandfather's  spyglass  nibbling  a  root  of  dandelion. 
Mrs  Monnerie  reclined  in  her  chair,  hands  on  lap,  with  pursed-up 
mouth  and  weary  eyes.  There  was  nobody  to  confide  in.  then. 
But  when  from  either  side  of  the  brightening  stage  flocked 
in  winged  creatures  with  lackadaisical  arms  and  waxlike  smilings, 
whose  paint  and  powder  caught  back  my  mind  rather  than  my 
feelings,  my  first  light-of-foot  was  hovering  beneath  us  close  to 
the  flaring  footlights ;  and  she  was  now  no  more  Fanny  than 
the  circle  of  illuminated  parchment  over  her  head  was  the  en- 
chanting moon.  What  a  complicated  world  it  was  with  all  these 
layers!     The   experience   filled   me  with   a   hundred   disquieting 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget  I 

desires,  and  yet  again,  chief  est  of  them  was  that  which  made 
sensitive  the  stumps  where,  if  I  turned  into  a  bird,  my  wings 
would  grow,  and  which  bade  me  "escape." 

"She's  getting  devilish  old  and  creaky  on  her  pins,"  yawned 
Percy,  when  the  curtain  had  descended,  and  I  had  sighingly 
shrunk  back  into  my  own  tasselled  nook  from  the  noise  and 
emptiness  of  actuality. 

"No,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie,  "it  is  you,  Percy,  who  are  getting  old. 
You  were  born  blase.  You'll  be  positively  yawning  your  head 
off  at  the  Last  Trump." 

"Dear  Aunt  Alice,"  said  Percy,  squinting  through  his  opera- 
glasses,  "nothing  of  the  kind.  I  shall  be  helping  you  to  find 
the  mislaid   knucklebones.     Besides,   it's  better  to  be  born " 

But  the  rest  of  his  sentence — and  I  listened  to  him  only 
because  I  hated  him — passed  unheeded,  for  all  my  attention  had 
been  drawn  to  Susan.  The  hand  beside  me  had  suddenly  clutched 
at  her  silk  skirt,  and  a  flush,  gay  as  the  Queen's  Union  Jacks 
in  Bond  Street,  had  mounted  into  her  clear,  pale  cheek,  as  with 
averted  chin  she  sat  looking  down  upon  some  one  in  the  stalls. 
At  sight  of  her  blushing,  a  richer  fondness  for  her  lightened  my 
mind.  I  followed  her  eye  to  its  goal,  and  gazed  enthralled,  now 
up,  now  down,  stringing  all  kinds  of  little  beads  of  thoughts  to- 
gether; until,  perhaps  conscious  that  she  was  being  watched,  she 
turned  and  caught  me.  Flamed  up  her  cheeks  yet  hotter ;  and 
now  mine  too ;  for  my  spirits  had  suddenly  sunk  into  my  shoes 
at  the  remembrance  of  Wanderslore  and  my  "ghostly,  gloating  little 
dwarfish  creature."  Then  once  more  darkness  stole  over  the 
vast,  quieting  house,  and  the  curtain  re-ascended  upon  Romance. 


288 


Chapter  Thirty-Five 


INSTEAD  ni"  its  being  a  month  as  had  been  arranged,  it  was 
over  six  weeks  before  I  was  deposited  again  with  my  elegant 
dressing-case — a  mere  Hying  visitor — on  Mrs  Bowater's  door- 
step. A  waft  of  cooked  air  Boated  out  into  the  June  sunshine 
through  the  letter-box.  Then,  in  the  open  door,  just  as  of  old, 
flushed  and  hot  in  her  black  clothes,  there  stood  my  old  friend, 
indescribably  the  same,  indescribably  different.  She  knelt  down 
on  her  own  doormat,  and  we  exchanged  loving  greetings.  Once 
more  I  trod  beneath  the  wreathing,  guardian  horns,  circum- 
navigated the  age-Stained  eight-day  clock,  and  so  into  my  parlour. 

Nothing  was  changed.  There  stood  the  shepherdess  ogling 
the  shepherd;  there  hung  Mr  Bowater  ;  there  dangled  the  chan- 
delier; there  angled  the  same  half-dozen  Hies.  Not  a  leg,  caster, 
or  antimacassar  was  out  of  place.  Yet  how  steadfastly  1  had  to 
keep  my  back  turned  on  my  landlady  lest  she  should  witness  my 
discomfiture,  haded,  dingy,  crowded,  shrunken — it  seemed 
unbelievable,  as  1  glanced  around  me,  that  here  1  could  have  lived 
and  breathed  so  many  months,  and  been  so  ridiculously  miserable, 
so  tragically  happy.  All  that  bygone  happiness  and  wretched- 
ness seemed,  for  the  moment,  mere  waste  and  folly.  And  not 
only  that — "common."  I  climbed  Mr  Bates's  clumsy  staircase, 
put  down  my  dressing-case,  and  slowly  removing  my  gloves, 
faced  dimly  the  curtained  window.  Beyond  it  lay  the  distant 
hills,  misty  in  the  morning  sunbeams,  the  familiar  meadows  all 
but  chin-high  with  buttercups. 

"Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,"  1  turned  at  last,  "here  I  am.  You  and 
the  quiet  sky — I  wish  I  had  never  gone  away.  What  is  the  use 
of  being  one's  self,  if  one  is  always  changing?" 

"There  comes  a  time.  miss,  when  we  don't  change;  only  the 
outer  walls  crumble  away  morsel  by  morsel,  so  to  speak.  But 
that's  not  for  you  yet.  Still,  that's  the  reason.  Me  and  the 
old  sticks  are  just  what  we  were,  at  least  to  the  eye;  and  you 
— well,  there! — the  house  has  been  like  a  cage  with  the  bird  gone." 

289 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

She  stood  looking  at  me  with  one  long  finger  stretching  bonily 
out  on  the  black  and  crimson  tablecloth,  a  shining  sea  of  loving 
kindness  in  her  eyes.  "I  can  see  they  have  taken  good  care  of 
you  and  all,  preened  the  pretty  feathers.  Why,  you  are  a  bit 
plumper  in  figure,  miss ;  only  the  voice  a  little  different,  perhaps." 
The  last  words  were  uttered  almost  beneath  her  breath. 

"My  voice,  Mrs  Bowater;  oh,  they  cannot  have  altered  that." 

"Indeed  they  have,  miss ;  neater-twisted,  as  you  might  say ; 
but  not  scarcely  to  be  noticed  by  any  but  a  very  old  friend. 
Maybe  you  are  a  little  tired  with  your  long  drive  and  those  two 
solemnities  on  the  box.  I  remember  the  same  thing — the  change 
of  voice — when  Fanny  came  back  from  her  first  term  at  Miss 
Stebbings'." 

"How  is  she?"  I  inquired  in  even  tones.  "She  has  never  written 
to  me.     Not  a  word." 

But,  strange  to  say,  as  Mrs  Bowater  explained,  and  not 
without  a  symptom  of  triumph,  that's  just  what  Fanny  had 
done.  Her  letter  was  awaiting  me  on  the  mantelpiece,  tucked  in 
behind  a  plush-framed  photograph. 

"Now,  let  me  see,"  she  went  on,  "there's  hot  water  in  your 
basin,  miss — I  heard  the  carriage  on  the  hill ;  a  pair  of  slippers 
to  ease  your  feet,  in  case  in  the  hurry  of  packing  they'd  been 
forgot;  and  your  strawberries  and  cream  are  out  there  icing 
themselves  on  the  tray.  So  we  shan't  be  no  time,  though 
disturbing  news  has  come  from  Mr  Bowater,  his  leg  not  mending 
as  it  might  have  been  foreseen — but  that  can  wait." 

An  unfamiliar  Miss  M.  brushed  her  hair  in  front  of  me  in  the 
familiar  looking-glass.  It  was  not  that  her  Monnerie  raiment 
was  particularly  flattering,  or  she,  indeed,  pleasanter  to  look  at 
— rather  the  contrary:  and  I  gazed  long  and  earnestly  into  the 
glass.  But  art  has  furtive  and  bewitching  fingers.  While  in 
my  home-made  clothes  I  had  looked  just  myself,  in  these  I 
looked  like  one  or  other  of  my  guardian  angels,  or  perhaps,  as 
an  unprejudiced  Fleming  would  have  expressed  it — the  perfect 
lady.  How  gradual  must  have  been  the  change  in  me  to  have 
passed  thus  unnoticed.  But  I  didn't  want  to  think.  I  felt  dulled 
and  dispirited.  Even  Mrs  Bowater  had  not  been  so  entranced  to 
see  me  as  I  had  anticipated.  It  was  tiresome  to  be  disappointed. 
I  rummaged  in  a  bottom  drawer,  got  out  an  old  gown,  made  a 
grimace  at  myself  in  my  mind,  and  sat  down  to  Fanny's  letter. 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

But  then  again,  what  are  externals?  Who  was  this  cool-tempered 
Miss  M.  who  was  now  scanning  the  once  heartrending  hand- 
writing? 

"Dear  Midgetina, — When  this  will  reach  you,  I  don't  know. 
But  somehow  I  cannot,  or  rather  I  can,  imagine  you  the  cynosure 
of  the  complete  peerage,  and  prefer  that  my  poor  little  letter  should 
not  uprear  its  modest  head  in  the  midst  of  all  that  Granjer.  You 
may  not  agree — but  if  a  few  weeks  of  a  High  Life  that  may  possibly 
continue  into  infinity  has  made  no  difference  to  you,  then  Fanny  is 
not  among  the  prophets. 

"We  have  not  met  since — we  parted.  But  did  you  ever  know  a 
"dead  past"  bury  itself  with  such  ingratiating  rapidity?  Have  you 
in  your  sublime  passion  for  Nature  ever  watched  a  Sexton  Beetle  ? 
But,  mind  you,  I  have  helped.  The  further  all  that  slips  away,  the 
less  I  can  see  I  was  to  blame  for  it.  What's  in  your  blood  needs 
little  help  from  outside.  Cynical  it  may  sound;  but  imagine  the 
situation  if  I  had  married  him!  What  could  existence  have  been 
but  a  Nightmare-Li fe-in-Death?  (Vide  S.  T.  Coleridge).  Now  the 
Dream  continues — for  us  both. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  see  your  little  face  needling  up  at  this.  But  you 
must  remember,  dear  Midgetina,  that  you  will  never,  never  be  able 
to  see  things  in  a  truly  human  perspective.  Few  people,  of  course, 
try  to.  You  do.  But  though  your  view  may  be  delicate  as  gossamer 
and  clear  as  a  glass  marble,  it  can't  be  full-size.  Boil  a  thing  down, 
it  isn't  the  same.  What  remains  has  the  virtues  of  an  essence,  but 
not  the  volume  of  its  origin.  This  sounds  horribly  school-booky ;  but 
I  am  quite  convinced  you  are  too  concentrated.  And  I  being  what 
I  am,  only  the  full  volume  can  be  my  salvation.  Enough.  The  text 
is  as  good  as  the  sermon — far  better,  in  fact. 

"Now  I  am  going  to  be  still  more  callous.  My  own  little  private 
worries  have  come  right — been  made  to.  I'm  tit  for  tat,  that  is, 
and  wiser  for  it  beyond  words.  Some  day,  when  Society  has 
taught  you  all  its  lessons,  I  will  explain  further.  Anyhow,  first  I 
send  you  back  £3  of  what  I  owe  you.  And  thank  you.  Next  I  want 
you  to  find  out  from  Mrs  Mummery  (as  mother  calls  her — or  did), 
if  among  her  distinguished  acquaintance  she  knows  any  one  with 
one  or  two,  or  at  most  three,  small  and  adorable  children  who  need 
an  excellent  governess.  Things  have  made  it  undesirable  for  me  to 
stay  on  here  much  longer.  It  shall  be  I  who  give  notice,  or,  shall  we 
say,  terminate  the  engagement. 

"Be  an  angel,  then.  First,  wake  up.  Candidly,  to  think  me  better 
than  I  am  is  more  grossly  unfair  than  if  I  thought  you  taller  than 

291 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

you  are.  Next,  sweet  cynosure,  find  me  a  sinecure.  Don't  trouble 
about  salary.  (You  wouldn't,  you  positive  acorn  of  quixoticism,  not 
if  I  owed  you  half  a  million.)  But  remember:  Wanted  by  the  end 
of  August  at  latest,  a  Lady,  wedlthy,  amiable,  with  two  Cherubic 
Doves  in  family,  boys  preferred.  The  simple,  naked  fact  being  that 
after  this  last  bout  of  life's  fitful  fever,  I  pine  for  a  nap. 

"Of  course  mother  can  see  this  letter  if  she  wishes  to,  and  you 
don't  mind.  But  personally  I  should  prefer  to  have  the  bird  actually 
fluttering  in  my  hand  before  she  contemplates  it  in  the  bush. 

"I  said  pine  just  now.  Do  you  ever  find  a  word  suddenly  so 
crammed  with  meaning  that  at  any  moment  it  threatens  to  explode  ? 
Well,  Midgetina,  them's  my  sentiments.  Penitent  I  shall  never  be, 
until  I  take  the  veil.  But  I  have  once  or  twice  lately  awoke  in  a 
kind  of  glassy  darkness — beyond  all  moonshine — alone.  Then,  if  I 
hadn't  been  born  just  thick-ribbed,  unmeltable  ice — well  .  .  . 
Vulgar,  vulgar  Fanny ! 

"Fare  thee  well,  Midgetina.  'One  cried,  "God  bless  us,"  and 
"Amen,"'  the  other.'  Prostituted  though  he  may  have  been  for  scho- 
lastic   purposes,    W.    S.    knew    something   of    Life. 

"Yours— F." 

What  was  the  alluring  and  horrifying  charm  for  me  of  Fanny's 
letters?  This  one  set  my  mind,  as  always,  wandering  off  into 
a  maze.  There  was  a  sour  taste  in  it,  and  yet — it  was  all 
really  and  truly  Fanny.  I  could  see  her  unhappy  eyes  glittering 
through  the  mask.  She  saw  herself — perhaps  more  plainly  than 
one  should.  "Vulgar  Fanny."  As  for  its  effect  on  me ;  it  was 
as  if  I  had  fallen  into  a  bed  of  nettles,  and  she  herself,  picking 
me  up,  had  scoffed,  "Poor  little  Midgekin,"  and  supplied  the 
dock.  Her  cynicism  was  its  own  antidote,  I  suppose.  The  self- 
ishness, the  vanity,  and  impenetrable  hardness — even  love  had 
never  been  so  blind  as  to  ignore  all  that,  and  now  what  love 
remained  for  her  had  the  sharpest  of  sharp  eyes. 

And  yet,  though  my  little  Bowater  parlour  looked  cheap  and 
dingy  after  the  splendours  of  No.  2,  Fanny  somehow  survived 
every  odious  comparison.  She  was  very  intelligent,  I  whispered 
to  myself.  Mrs  Monnerie  would  certainly  approve  of  that.  And 
I  prickled  at  the  thought.  And  I — I  was  too  "concentrated." 
In  spite  of  my  plumping  "figure,"  I  could  never,  never  be  full- 
size.  If  only  Fanny  had  meant  that  as  a  compliment,  or  even 
as  a  kind  of  explanation  to  go  on  with.  No,  she  had  meant  it  for 
the  truth.  And  it  must  be  far  easier  for  a  leopard  to  change 
292 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

his  spots  than  his  inside.  The  accusation  set  all  the  machinery 
of  my  mind  emptily  whirring. 

My  glance  fell  on  my  Paris  frock,  left  in  a  shimmering  slovenly 
ring  on  the  floor.  It  wandered  off  to  Fanny's  postal  order, 
spread  over  my  lap  like  an  expensive  antimacassar.  She  had 
worked  for  that  money;  while  I  had  never  been  anything  more 
useful  than  "an  angel."  In  fancy  1  saw  her  blooming  in  a 
house  as  sumptuous  as  Mrs  Monnerie's.  Bloom  indeed!  I  hated 
the  thought,  yet  realized,  too,  that  it  was  safer — even  if  for 
the  time  being  not  so  profitable — to  be  life-size.  And,  as  if 
out  of  the  listening  air,  a  cold  dart  pierced  me  through.  Suppose 
my  Messrs  I  larris  and  Harris  and  Harris  might  not  be  such  honest 
trustees  as  Miss  Fenne  had  vouched  for.  Suppose  they  decamped 
with  my  £110  per  annum! — I  caught  a  horrifying  glimpse  of 
the  wolf  that  was  always  sniffing  at  Fanny's  door. 

Mrs  Bowater  brought  in  my  luncheon,  and — as  I  insisted — 
her  own,  too.  The  ice  from  Mr  Tidy,  the  fishmonger's,  had 
given  a  slightly  marine  flavour  to  the  cream,  and  I  had  to  keep 
my  face  averted  as  much  as  possible  from  the  scorched  red  chop 
sprawling  and  oozing  on  her  plate.  How  could  she  bring  herself 
to  eat  it?  We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on,  said 
Hamlet.  So  then  was  Mrs  Bowater.  What  a  mystery  then 
was  this  mutton  fat !     But  chop  or  no  chop,  it  was  a  happy  meal. 

I  laving  waved  my  extremely  "Fannyish"  letter  at  her,  I  rapidly 
dammed  that  current  of  her  thoughts  by  explaining  that  I  had 
changed  my  clothes  not  (as  a  gleam  from  her  eye  had  seemed 
to  suspect)  because  I  was  afraid  of  spoiling  my  London  finery, 
but  in  order  to  be  really  at  home.  For  the  first  time  I  surprised 
her  muttering  a  grace  over  the  bone  on  her  plate.  Then  she 
removed  the  tray,  accepted  a  strawberry,  folded  her  hands  in 
her  lap,  and  we  began  to  talk.  She  asked  a  hundred  and 
one  questions  concerning  my  health  and  happiness,  but  never 
once  mentioned  Mrs  Monnerie;  and  at  last,  after  a  small  pause, 
filled  by  us  both  with  the  same  thought,  she  remarked  that  "that 
young  Mr  Anon  was  nothing  if  not  persistent." 

Since  I  had  gone,  not  a  week  had  passed,  she  told  me,  but 
he  had  come  rapping  at  the  door  after  dusk  to  inquire  after  me. 
"Though  why  he  should  scowl  like  a  pitchpot  to  hear  that  you 

are    enjoying   the    lap    of    luxury "     The    angular    shoulders 

achieved  a  shrug  at  least  as  Parisian  as  my  discarded  gown. 

293 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Why  doesn't  he  write  to  me,  then?     Twice  in  ten  weeks!" 

"Well  it's  six,  miss,  I've  counted,  though  seemingly  sixty.     But 

that  being  the  question,   he  is  there  to  answer  it,   at  any  time 

this  evening,  or  at  six  to-morrow  morning,  if  London  ways  haven't 

cured  you  of  early-rising." 

So  we  went  off  together,  Mrs  Bowater  and  I,  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  about  half  an  hour  after  sunset — she,  alas,  a 
little  ruffled  because  I  had  refused  to  change  back  again  into 
my  Monnerie  finery.  "But  Mrs  Bowater,  imagine  such  a  thing 
in  a  real  wild  garden !"  I  protested,  but  without  mollifying  her, 
and  without  further  explaining — how  could  I  do  that? — that 
the  gown  which  Miss  Sentimentality  (or  Miss  Coquette)  was 
actually  wearing  was  that  in  which  she  had  first  met  Mr  Anon. 


294 


Chapter  Thirty-Six 


I  TROD  close  in  Mrs  Bowater's  track  as  she  convoyed  me 
through  a  sea  of  greenery  breaking  here  and  there  to  my  waist 
and  even  above  my  hat.  Summer  had  been  busy  in  Wanders- 
lore.  Honeysuckle  and  acid-sweet  brier  were  in  bloom ;  sleeping 
bindweed  and  pimpernel.  The  air  was  liquidly  sweet  with  un- 
countable odours.  And  the  fading  skies  dyed  bright  the  frown- 
ing front  of  the  house,  about  which  the  new-come  swifts  shrieked 
in  their  play  over  my  wilderness.  Mr  Anon  looked  peculiar, 
standing  alone  there. 

Having  bidden  him  a  gracious  good-evening,  Mrs  Bowater 
after  a  long,  ruminating  glance  at  us,  decided  that  she  would 
"take  a  stroll  through  the  grounds."  We  watched  her  black  figure 
trail  slowly  away  up  the  overgrown  terraces  towards  the  house. 
Then  he  turned.  His  clear,  dwelling  eyes,  with  that  darker 
line  encircling  the  grey-black  iris,  fixed  themselves  on  me,  his 
mouth  tight-shut. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  almost  wearily.  "It  has  been  a  long 
waiting." 

I  was  unprepared  for  this  sighing.  "It  has  indeed,"  I  replied. 
"But  it  is  exceedingly  pleasant  to  see  Beechwood  Hill  again. 
I  wrote;  but  you  did  not  answer  my  letter,  at  least  not  the 
last." 

My  voice  dropped  away ;  every  one  of  the  fine  little  speeches 
I  had  thought  to  make,  forgotten. 

"And    now    you    are    here." 

"Yes,"  I  said  quickly,  a  little  timid  of  any  silence  between 
us,  "and  that's  pleasant  too.  You  can  have  no  notion  what  a 
stiff,  glaring  garden  it  is  up  there — geraniums  and  gravel,  you 
know,  and  windows,  windows,  windows.  They  are  wonderfully 
kind   to  me — but   I   don't   much   love   it." 

"Then  why  slay?"  he  smiled.  "Still,  you  are,  at  least,  safely 
out  of  her  clutches." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Clutches !"  I  hated  the  way  we  were  talking.  "Thank  you 
very  much.  You  forget  you  are  speaking  of  one  of  my  friends. 
Besides,  I  can  take  care  of  myself."     He  made  no  answer. 

"You  are  so  gloomy,"  I  continued.  "So — oh,  I  don't  know 
— about  everything.  It's  because  you  are  always  cooped  up  in 
one  place,  I  suppose.  One  must  take  the  world — a  little — as  it 
is,  you  know.  Why  don't  you  go  away ;  travel ;  see  things  ?  Oh, 
if  I  were  a  man." 

His  eyes  watched  my  lips.  Everything  seemed  to  have  turned 
sour.  To  have  waited  and  dreamed ;  to  have  actually  changed 
my  clothes  and  come  scuttling  out  in  a  silly  longing  excitement 
— for  this.  Why,  I  felt  more  lonely  and  helpless  under  Wanders- 
lore's  evening  sky  than  ever  I  had  been  in  my  cedar-wood  privacy 
in  No.  2. 

"I  mean  it,  I  mean  it,"  I  broke  out  suddenly.  "You  domineer 
over  me.  You  pamper  me  up  with  silly  stories — 'trailing  clouds 
of  glory,'  I  suppose.  They  are  not  true.  It's  every  one  for 
himself  in  this  world,  I  can  tell  you;  and  in  future,  please 
understand,  I  intend  to  be  my  own  mistress.  Simply  because 
in  a  little  private  difficulty  I  asked  you  to  help  me " 

He  turned  irresolutely.  "They  have  dipped  you  pretty  deep 
in  the  dye-pot." 

"And  what,  may  I  ask,  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean,"  and  he  faced  me,  "that  I  am  precisely  what  your 
friend,  Miss  Bowater,  called  me.     What  more  is  there  to  say?" 

"And  pray,  am  I  responsible  for  everything  my  friends  say? 
And  to  have  dragged  up  that  wretched  fiasco  after  we  had  talked 
it  out  to  the  very  dregs  !  Oh,  how  I  have  been  longing  and  longing 
to  come  home.     And  this  is  what  you  make  of  it." 

He  turned  his  face  towards  the  west,  and  its  vast  light  ir- 
radiated his  sharp-boned  features,  the  sloping  forehead  beneath 
the  straight,  black  hair.  Fume  as  I  might,  resentment  fainted 
away   in   me. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  I  went  on;  "it's  the  waste 
— 1the  waste  of  it  all.  Why  do  you  make  it  so  that  I  can't  talk- 
naturally  to  you,  as  friends  talk?  If  I  am  alone  in  the  world, 
so  are  you.  Surely  we  can  tell  the  truth  to  one  another.  I  am 
utterly   wretched." 

"'I  here  is  only  one  truth  that  matters:  you  do  not  love  me. 
Why  should  you?  But  that's  the  barrier.  And  the  charm  of 
296 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

it  is  that  not  only  the  Gods,  but  the  miserable  Humans,  if  only 
they  knew  it,  would  enjoy  the  sport." 

"Love!  1  detest  the  very  sound  of  the  word.  What  has 
it  ever  meant  to  me,  I  should  like  to  know,  in  this — this  cage?" 

"Scarcely  a  streak  of  gilding  on  the  bars,"  he  sneered  miser- 
ably.    "Still   we  are  sharing  the  same  language  now." 

'hlie  same  language.  Self-pitying  tears  pricked  into  my  eyes; 
I  turned  my  head  away.  And  in  the  silence,  stealthily,  out  of 
a  dark  woody  hollow  nearer  the  house,  as  if  at  an  incantation, 
broke  a  low,  sinister,  protracted  rattle,  like  the  croaking  of 
a  toad.  1  knew  that  sound  ;  it  came  straight  out  of  Lyndsey 
— called  me   hack. 

"S-sh!"  I  whispered,  caught  up  with  delight.  "A  nightjar! 
Listen.     Let's  go  and  look." 

I  held  out  my  hand.  I  lis  sent  a  shiver  down  my  spine. 
It  was  clammy  cold,  as  if  he  had  just  come  out  of  the  sea. 
Thrusting  our  way  between  the  denser  clumps  of  weeds,  we 
pushed  on  cautiously  until  we  actually  stood  under  the  creature's 
enormous  oak.  So  elusive  and  deceitful  was  the  throbbing  croon 
of  sound  that  it  was  impossible  to  detect  on  which  naked  branch 
in  the  black  leafiness  the  bird  sat  churring.  The  wafted  fra- 
grances, the  placid  djusky  air,  and  far,  far  above,  the  delicate, 
shallowing  deepening  of  the  faint-starred  blue — how  I  longed  to 
sip  but  one  drop  of  drowsy  mandragora  and  forget  this  fretting, 
inconstant  self. 

We  stood,  listening;  and  an  old  story  I  had  read  somewhere 
floated  back  into  memory.  "Once,  did  you  ever  hear  it?"  I 
whispered  close  to  him,  "then-  was  a  ghost  came  to  a  house 
near  Cirencester.  I  read  of  it  in  a  book.  And  when  it  was 
asked,  'Are  you  a  good  spirit  or  a  had?'  it  made  no  answer, 
but  vanished,  the  book  said — 1  remember  the  very  words — 
'with  a  curious  perfume  and  most  melodious  twang.'  With 
a  curious  perfume,"  I  repeated,  "and  most  melodious  twang. 
There  now,  would  you  like  mc  to  go  like-  that?  Oh,  if  I  were  a 
moth,  1  would  flit  in  there  and  ask  that  old  Death-thing  to  catch 
me.  Even  if  I  cannot  love  you,  you  are  part  of  all  this.  You 
feed  my  very  self.     Mayn't  that  be  enough?" 

His  grip  tightened  round  my  fingers;  the  entrancing,  toneless 
dulcimer  thrummed  on. 

I  leaned  nearer,  as  if  to  raise  the  shadowed  lids  above  the 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

brooding  eyes.  "What  can  I  give  you — only  to  be  your  peace? 
I  do  assure  you  it  is  yours.  But  I  haven't  the  secret  of  knowing 
what  half  the  world  means.  Look  at  me.  Is  it  not  all  a  mystery? 
Oh,  I  know  it,  even  though  they  jeer  and  laugh  at  me.  I 
beseech  you  be  merciful,  and  keep  me  what  I  am." 

So  I  pleaded  and  argued,  scarcely  heeding  the  words  I 
said.  Yet  I  realize  now  that  it  was  only  my  mind  that  wrestled 
with  him  there.  It  was  what  came  after  that  took  the  heart 
out  of  me.  There  came  a  clap  of  wings,  and  the  bird  swooped 
out  of  its  secrecy  into  the  air  above  us,  a  moment  showed  his 
white-splashed,  cinder-coloured  feathers  in  the  dusk,  seemed  to 
tumble  as  if  broken-winged  upon  the  air,  squawked,  and  was 
gone.     The  interruption  only  hastened  me  on. 

"Still,  still  listen,"  I  implored:  "if  Time  would  but  cease 
a  while  and  let  me  breathe." 

"There,  there,"  he  muttered.  "I  was  unkind.  A  filthy  jeal- 
ousy." 

"But  think !  There  may  never  come  another  hour  like  this. 
Know,  know  now,  that  you  have  made  me  happy.  I  can 
never  be  so  alone  again.  I  share  my  secretest  thoughts — my 
imagination,  with  you;  isn't  that  a  kind  of  love?  I  assure  you 
that  it  is.  Once  I  heard  my  mother  talking,  and  sometimes 
I  have  wondered  myself,  if  I  am  quite  like — oh,  you  know 
what  they  say:  a  freak  of  Nature.  Tell  me ;  if  by  some  enchant- 
ment I  were  really  and  indeed  come  from  those  snow  mountains 
of  yours,  and  that  sea,  would  you  recognize  me?  Would  you? 
No,  no;  it's  only  a  story — why,  even  all  this  green  and  loveli- 
ness is  only  skin  deep.  If  the  Old  World  were  just  to  shrug 
its  shoulders,  Mr  Anon,  we  should  all,  big  and  little,  be  clean 
gone." 

My  words  seemed  merely  to  be  like  drops  of  water  dripping 
upon  a  sponge.  "Wake!"  I  tugged  at  his  hand.  "Look!" 
Kneeling  down  sidelong,  I  stooped  my  cheek  up  at  him  from  a 
cool,  green  mat  of  grass,  amid  which  a  glow-worm  burned: 
"Is  this  a — a  Stranger's  face?" 

He  came  no  nearer;  surveyed  me  with  a  long,  quiet  smile 
of  infinitely  sorrowful  indulgence.  "A  Stranger's?  How  else 
could  it  be,  if  I  love  you?" 

Intoxicated  in  that  earthy  fragrance,  washed  about  with  the 
colours  ofj  the  motionless  flowers,  it  seemed  I  was  merely 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

talking  to  some  one  who  could  assure  me  that  I  was  still  in 
life,  still  myself.  A  strand  of  my  hair  had  fallen  loose,  and 
smiling,  its  gold  pin  between  my  lips,  I  looped  it  hack.  "Oh,  but 
you  see — haven't  I  told  you? — I  can't  love  you.  Perhaps;  I 
don't  know.  .  .  .  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  say?  Now 
suppose,"  I  went  on,  "I  like  myself  that  much,"  and  I  held  my 
thumb  and  finger  just  ajar,  "then  I  like  you,  think  of  you,  hope 
for  you,  why,  that!" — and  I  swept  my  hand  clean  across  the 
empty  zenith.     "Nozv  do  you  understand?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,   my  dear,"  he  said,  and  smiled   into  my  eyes. 

I  laughed  out  in  triumph  at  the  success  of  my  device.  And 
he  laughed  too,  as  if  in  a  conspiracy  with  me — and  with  Misery, 
I  could  see,  sitting  like  an  old  hag  at  the  door  from  which  the 
sound  came.  And  out  of  the  distance  the  nightjar  set  again  to 
its   churring. 

"Then  I  have  made  you  a  little — a  little  less  unhappy?"  I 
asked  him,  and  hid  my  face  in  my  hands  in  a  desolate  peace 
and  solitude. 

He  knelt  beside  me,  held  out  his  hand  as  if  to  touch  me, 
withdrew  it  again.  All  presence  of  him  distanced  and  vanished 
away  in  that  small  darkness.  I  prayed  not  to  think  any  more, 
not  to  be  exiled  again  into — how  can  I  explain  my  meaning  except 
by  saying — Myself?  Would  some  further  world  have  withdrawn 
its  veils  and  have  let  me  in  then  and  for  ever  if  that  lightless 
quiet  could  have  continued  a  little  longer?  Is  it  the  experience 
of  every  human  being  seemingly  to  trespass  at  times  so  close 
upon  the  confines  of  existence  as  that? 

It  was  his  own  harsh  voice  that  broke  the  spell. 

"Wake,  wake !"  it  called  in  my  ear.  "The  woman  is  looking 
for  you.     We  must  go." 

My  hands  slipped  from  my  face.  A  slow,  sobbing  breath 
drew  itself  into  my  body.  And  there  beneath  evening's  vacancy 
of  twilight  showed  the  transfigured  scene  of  the  garden,  and, 
near  me,  the  anxious,  suffering  face  of  this  stranger,  faintly 
greened  by  the  light  of  the  worm. 

"Wake!"  he  bade  me,  rapping  softly  with  his  bony  finger 
on  my  hand.     I  stared  at  him  out  of  a  dream. 


299 


Chapter  Thirty-Seven 

TIME  and  circumstance  have  strangely  divided  me  from  the 
Miss  M.  of  those  days.  I  look  back  on  her,  not  with  shame, 
but  with  a  shrug  of  my  shoulders,  a  sort  of  incredulous 
tolerance — almost  as  if  she  too  were  a  stranger.  Perhaps  a  few 
years  hence  I  shall  be  looking  back  with  an  equal  detachment 
on  the  Miss  M.  seated  here  at  this  moment  with  her  books  and 
her  pen  in  the  solitude  of  her  thoughts,  vainly  endeavouring  to 
fret  out  and  spin  together  mere  memories  that  nobody  will 
ever  have  the  patience  to  read.  Shall  I  then  be  able  to  tell 
myself  what  I  want  now,  give  words  to  the  vague  desires  that 
still  haunt  me?  Shall  I  still  be  waiting  on  for  some  unconceived 
eventuality  ? 

There  is,  too,  another  small  riddle  of  a  different  kind,  which 
I  cannot  answer.  In  memory  and  imagination,  as  I  steadily 
gaze  out  of  this  familiar  room  recalling  the  past,  I  am  that  very 
self  in  that  distant  garden  of  Wanderslore.  But  even  as  I  look, 
I  am  not  only  within  myself  there,  but  also  outside  of  myself. 
I  seem,  I  mean,  actually  to  be  contemplating,  as  if  with  my 
own  eyes,  those  two  queer,  silent  figures  returning  through  the 
drowsying,  moth-haunted  flowers  and  grasses  to  the  black,  vigilant 
woman  awaiting  them  beside  the  garden  house.  "Alas,  you  poor, 
blind  thing,"  I  seem,  like  a  ghost,  to  warn  the  one  small  creature, 
"have  a  care ;  seize  your  happiness ;  it  is  vanishing !" 

All  that  I  write,  then,  is  an  attempt  only  to  tell,  not  to  explain. 
I  realize  that  sometimes  I  was  pretending  things,  yet  did  not 
know  that  I  was  pretending ;  that  often  I  acted  with  no  more 
conscience  or  consciousness,  maybe,  than  has  a  carrion  crow  that 
picks  out  the  eyes  of  a  lamb,  or  a  flower  that  draws  in  its  petals 
at  noon.  Yet  T  know — know  absolutely,  that  I  was,  and  am, 
responsible  not  only  for  myself,  but  for  everything.  For  my 
whole  world.  And  I  cannot  explain  this  either.  At  times,  as 
if  to  free  myself,  I  had  to  stare  at  what  appalled  me.  I  am 
sure,  for  instance,  that  Mrs  Monnerie  never  dreamed  that  her 
300 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

mention  of  Mr  Crimble  sent  me  off  in  fancy  at  the  first  op- 
portunity to  that  woeful  outhouse  in  his  mother's  garden  to 
look  in  on  him  there — again.  But  I  did  so  look  at  him,  and 
was  a  little  more  at  peace  with  him  after  that.  Why,  then, 
cannot  I  he  at  peace  with  one  who  loved  me? 

Maybe  if  I  could  have  foreseen  how  I  was  to  come  to 
Wanderslore  again,  I  should  have  been  a  less  selfish,  showy, 
and  capricious  companion  to  him  that  June  evening.  But  I 
was  soon  lapped  back  into  my  life  in  London;  and  thought 
only  of  Mr  Anon,  as  I  am  apt  to  think  of  God:  namely,  when 
I  needed  his  presence  and  his  help.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  1  had 
small  time  to  think.  Even  the  douhts  and  misgivings  that 
occasionally  woke  me  in  the  night  melted  like  dreams  in  the 
morning.  Every  morrow  blotted  out  its  yesterday — as  faded 
flowers  are  flung  away  out  of  a  vase. 

In  that  vortex  of  visits  and  visitors,  that  endless  vista  of 
amusements  and  eating  and  drinking — some  hidden  spring  of  life 
in  me  began  to  fail.  What  a  little  self-conscious  affected  donkey 
I  became,  shrilly  hee-hawing  away;  the  centre  of  a  simpering 
throng  plying  me  with  flattery.     What  airs  I  put  on. 

If  this  Life  of  mine  had  been  a  Biography,  the  author  of 
it  would  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  copying  out  from  a  pygmy 
blue  morocco  diary  the  names  of  all  the  celebrated  and  dis- 
tinguished  people  I  met  at  No.  2.  A  few  of  them  underlined 
in  red !  The  amusing  thing  is  that,  like  my  father,  I  was  still 
a  Radical  at  heart  and  preferred  low  life — flea-bane  and  chick- 
weed — to  the  fine  flowers  of  culture ;  which  only  means,  of 
course,  that  in  this  1  am  a  snob  inside  out.  Nevertheless,  the 
attention  I  had  shunned  I  now  began  to  covet,  and,  like  a 
famous  artist  or  dancer,  would  go  sulky  to  bed,  if  I  had  been 
left  to  blush  at  being  unseen.  I  forced  myself  to  be  more  and 
more  fastidious:  and  tried  to  admire  ;is  little  as  possible.  T 
would  even  imitate  and  affect  languid  pretentiousnesses  and  ef- 
fronteries ;  and  learned  to  be  downright  rude  to  people  in  a 
cultivated  way.  As  for  small  talk.  I  soon  accumulated  a  repertory 
of  that,  and  could  use  the  fashionable  slang  and  current  "con- 
versations" like  a  native.  All  this  intensely  amused  Mi's  Mon- 
nerie.  Eor,  of  course,  the  more  like  the  general  run  of  these 
high  livers  I  was,  the  more  conspicuous  I  became. 

The  truth  is,  the  Lioness's  head  was  in  peril  of  being  turned, 

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and,  like  a  blind  kitten  in  a  bucket  of  water,  I  came  very  near 
to  being  drowned  in  the  social  cream-bowl.  For  what  little  I 
gained  in  public  by  all  this  silly  vanity  I  paid  a  heavy  price 
when  alone.  I  began  to  be  fretful  and  utterly  useless  to  myself 
— just  lived  on  from  excitement  to  excitement.  And  Fleming 
soon  had  better  reasons  for  detesting  me  than  merely  because 
I  was   horribly   undersized. 

Perhaps  I  am  exaggerating ;  but  the  truth  is  I  find  it  extremely 
difficult  to  keep  patience  with  Mrs  Monnerie's  pampered  protegee. 
She  was  weak  and  stupid.  Yet  learning  had  not  lost  its  charm. 
My  mind  persisted  in  being  hungry,  however  much  satiated  were 
my  senses  and  fine  feelings.  I  even  infected  Susan  with  my 
enthusiasm  for  indigestible  knowledge.  For  since  Mrs  Monnerie 
had  begun  to  find  my  passion  for  shells,  fossils,  flints,  butterflies, 
and  stuffed  animals  a  little  wearisome,  it  was  her  niece  who  now 
accompanied  me  to  my  many  Meccas  in  her  stead.  By  a  happy 
chance  we  often  met  on  these  pilgrimages  the  dark,  straight-nosed 
young  man  whom  I  had  looked  down  upon  at  my  first  ballet,  and 
who  also  apparently  was  a  fanatic. 

However  deeply  engrossed  in  mementoes  of  the  Dark  or  Stone 
Ages  he  might  be,  he  never  failed  to  see  us  the  moment  we 
entered  his  echoing  gallery.  He  would  lift  his  eyebrows;  his 
monocle  would  drop  out;  and  he  would  come  sauntering  over  to 
meet  us,  looking  as  fresh  as  apples  cold  with  dew.  I  liked 
Captain  Valentine.  So  much  so  that  I  sent  an  almost  rapturous 
description  of  him  to  Mr  Anon. 

He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  to  mind  being  seen  in  my  company. 
We  had  our  little  private  jokes  together.  We  both  enjoyed  the 
company  of  Susan.  He  was  so  crisp  and  easy  and  quick-witted, 
and  yet — to  my  unpractised  eye — looked  delightfully  domestica- 
table.  Even  the  crustiest  old  caretaker,  at  a  word  and  a  smile 
from  Captain  Valentine,  would  allow  me  to  seat  myself  on 
the  glass  cases.  So  I  could  gloat  on  their  contents  at  leisure. 
And  certainly  of  the  three  of  us  I  was  by  far  the  most  diligent 
student. 

Long  hours,  too,  of  the  none  too  many  which  will  make 
up  my  life  would  melt  away  like  snow  in  Mrs  Monnerie's  library. 
A  button  specially  fixed  for  me  in  the  wainscot  would  summon 
a  manservant.  Having  ranged  round  the  lofty  walls,  I  would 
point  up  at  what  books  I  wanted.  They  would  be  strewn  around 
302 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

me  on  the  floor — gilded  and  leathery  volumes,  some  of  them 
almost  of  my  own  height,  and  many  times  my  weight.  I  would 
open  the  lid,  turn  the  great  pages,  and  carefully  sprawling  on 
my  elhows  between  them,  would  pore  for  hours  together  on 
their  coloured  pictures  of  birds  and  flowers,  gems  and  glass, 
ruins,  palaces,  mountains — hunting,  cock-fighting,  fashions,  fine 
ladies,  and  foreign  marvels.  And  I  dipped  into  novels  so  like 
the  unpleasanter  parts  of  my  own  life  that  they  might  just 
as  well  have  been  autobiographies. 

The  secret  charm  of  all  this  was  that  I  was  alone;  and  while 
I  was  reading  I  ceased  to  worry.  I  just  drugged  my  mind 
with  books.  1  would  go  rooting  and  rummaging  in  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie's  library,  like  a  little  pig  after  truffles.  There  was  hardly 
a  subject  I  left  untasted — old  plays,  and  street  ballads;  John- 
son's enormous  dictionary,  that  extraordinary  book  on  Melancholy 
with  its  borage  and  hellebore  and  the  hatted  young  man  in 
love;  Bel  and  the  Dragon,  the  Newgate  Calendar.  1  even 
nibbled  at  Debrett — and  clean  through  all  its  "M's."  The  more  I 
read,  the  more  ignorant  I  seemed  to  become ;  and  quite  apart  from 
this  smattering  jumble  of  knowledge,  I  pushed  my  way  through 
memoirs  and  romances  at  the  very  sight  of  which  my  poor  god- 
mother would  have  fainted  dead  off. 

They  may  have  been  harmful;  but  I  certainly  can't  say  that 
I  regret  having  read  them — which  may  be  part  of  the  harm. 
You  could  tell  the  really  bad  ones  almost  at  a  sniff.  They  had 
bad  smells,  like  a  beetle  cupboard  or  a  scented  old  man.  I 
read  on  of  witchcraft  and  devils,  yet  hated  the  cloud  they  cast 
over  me — like  some  horrible  treacle  in  the  mind.  But  as  for 
the  authors  who  just  reasoned  about  Time  and  God  and  Miracles, 
and  so  on,  I  poked  about  in  them  willingly  enough;  but  my 
imagination  went  off  the  other  way — with  my  heart  in  its  pocket. 
Possibly  without  knowing  it.  But  I  do  know  this :  that  never 
to  my  dying  day  shall  I  learn  what  a  common-sized  person  with 
a  pen  or  a  pencil,  can  not  make  shocking,  or  be  shocked  at. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  to  some  of  these  authors  the  whole 
universe  was  nothing  better  than  a  Squid,  and  a  very  much 
scandalized  young  woman  would  attempt  to  replace  their  works 
on  the  shelves. 

When   in   good    faith    I    occasionally   ventured   to   share    (or 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

possibly  to  show  off)  some  curious  scrap  of  information  with 
Mrs  Monnerie,  I  thought  her  eyes  would  goggle  out  of  her  head. 
It  was  perhaps  my  old  mole  habit  that  prevented  me  from  dividing 
things  up  into  the  mentionable  and  unmentionable.  Possibly  I 
carried  this  habit  to  excess;  and  yet,  of  course,  remained  the 
slave  of  my  own  small  pruderies.  Still,  I  don't  think  it  was 
either  Mrs  Monnerie's  or  Percy's  pruderies  that  I  had  to  be 
careful  about.  To  make  him  laugh  was  one  of  the  most  hateful 
of  my  experiences  at  No.  2. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  the  human  instincts  are  "unlike 
Apollyon,  since  they  always  degrade  themselves  by  their  dis- 
guises. They  dress  themselves  up  as  Apes  and  Mandrils ;  he  as 
a  ringed,  supple,  self-flattering,  seductive  serpent."  Possibly  that 
has  something  to  do  with  it.  Or  is  it  that  my  instincts  are 
also  on  a  petty  scale?  I  don't  know.  I  hate  and  fear  pain 
even  more  than  most  people,  and  have  fought  pretty  hard  in 
the  cause  of  self-preservation.  On  the  other  hand,  I  haven't 
the  faintest  wish  in  the  world  to  "perpetuate  my  species."  •  Not 
that  I  might  not  have  been  happy  in  a  husband  and  in  my 
children.  I  suppose  that  kind  of  thing  comes  on  one  just  as 
naturally  as  breathing.  Nevertheless,  I  suspect  I  was  born  to 
be  an  Old  Maid.  Calling  up  Spirits  from  the  vasty  deep  has 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  far  more  dreadful  mystery  than 
Death.  It  is  not,  indeed,  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  and  the  past 
which  I  think  should  oppress  the  people  I  see  around  me,  but 
those  of  the  children  to  come.  I  thank  God  from  the  bottom 
of  my  heart  for  the  happiness  and  misery  of  having  been  alive, 
but  my  small  mind  reels  when  I  brood  on  what  the  gift  of  it 
implies. 

Well,  well,  well;  of  one  burden  at  least  I  can  absolve  Mrs 
Monnerie — that  of  making  me  so  sententious.  Somehow  or  other, 
hut  ever  more  sluggishly,  those  few  crowded  summer  months 
of  my  twentieth  year  wore  away.  It  is  more  of  a  mercy  than 
a  curse,  I  suppose,  that  Time  never  stands  still. 

Meanwhile  two  events  occurred  which,  for  the  time  being, 
sobered  and  alarmed  me.  A  few  days  before  I  had  actually 
planned  to  pay  a  second  visit  to  Mrs  Bowater's,  the  almost  in- 
credible news  reached  me  that  she  was  sailing  for  South  America. 
It  would  hardly  have  surprised  me  more  to  hear  that  she  was 
3°4 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

sailing  for  Sirius.  She  came  to  bid  me  good-bye.  It  was  Mr 
Bowater,  she  told  me.  She  had  been  too  confident  of  the  "good 
nursing."  Far  from  mending  in  this  world,  his  leg  threatened 
"to  carry  him  off  into  the  next."  At  these  tidings  Shame  thrust 
out  a  very  ugly  head  at  me  from  her  retreat.  I  had  utterly  for- 
gotten the  anxiety  my  poor  old  friend  was  in. 

She  put  on  her  spectacles  with  trembling  fingers,  and  pushed 
her  husband's  letter  across  to  me.  The  handwriting  was  bold 
and  thick,  yet  1  fancied  it  looked  a  little  weak  in  the  loops: — 

"Deak  I'.mii.y,- — The  leg's  giving  mc  the  devil  in  this  hole  of  a 
place.  It  looks  as  if  I  shouldn't  get  through  with  it.  I  should  be 
greatly  obliged  if  you  would  come  out  to  me.  They'll  give  you  all 
the  necessary  information  at  the  shipping  office.  Ask  for  Pullen. 
My  love  to  Fanny.  What's  she  looking  like  now?  1  should  like  to 
see  her  before  I  go;  but  better  say  nothing  about  it.  You've  got 
about  a  month  or  three  weeks,  1  should  think;  if  that. 

"I    remain,    your    affec.    husband, 

"Joseph    B  r." 

"Easy  enough  in  appearance"  was  Mrs  Bowater's  comment, 
as  she  folded  up  this  stained  and  flimsy  letter  again,  and  stuffed 
it  into  her  purse,  "but  it's  past  even  Mr  Bowater  to  control 
what  can  be  read  between  the  lines." 

She  looked  at  me  dumbly ;  the  skin  seemed  to  hang  more 
loosely  on  her  face.  In  vain  I  tried  to  think  of  a  comforting 
speech.  The  tune  of  "Eternal  Father,"  one  of  the  hymns  we 
used  to  sing  on  windy  winter  Sunday  evenings  together,  had 
begun  droning  in  my  head.  The  thought,  too,  was  worrying 
me,  though  1  did  not  put  it  into  words,  that  Mr  Bowater,  far 
rather  than  in  Buenos  Ayres,  would  have  preferred  to  find  his 
last  resting-place  in  Nero  Dee])  or  the  Virgin's  Trough — those 
enormous  pits  of  blue  in  the  oceans  which  I  myself  had  so  often 
gloated  on  in  his  Atlas.  We  were  old  friends  now,  he  and  I. 
He  was  Fanny's  father.  The  very  ferocity  of  his  look  had  be- 
come a  secret  understanding  between  us.  And  now — at  this 
very  moment  perhaps — he  was  dying.  The  jaunty  "devil"  in 
his  letter,  I  am  afraid,  affected  me  Ear  more  than  Mrs  Bowal 
troubled  face  or  even  her  courage. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


face  the  Atlantic's  thousands  of  miles  of  wind  and  water  to  join 
the  husband  she  had  told  me  had  long  been  "worse  than"  dead. 
The  very  tone  in  which  she  uttered  the  word  "steamer,"  was 
even  more  lugubrious  than  the  enormous,  mocking  hoot  of  a 
vessel  that  had  once  alarmed  me  out  of  the  sea  one  still  evening 
at  Lyme  Regis.  It  was  a  horrifying  prospect,  yet  she  just 
quietly  said,  "steamer,"  and  looked  at  me  over  her  spectacles. 

While  she  was  away,  the  little  house  on  Beechwood  Hill, 
"bought,  thank  God,  with  my  own  money,"  was  to  be  shut  up, 
but  it  was  mine  if  I  cared  to  return  to  it,  and  would  ask  a  neigh- 
bour of  hers,  Mrs  Chantry,  for  the  key.  It  would  be  Fanny's 
if  anything  "happened"  to  herself.  So  dismal  was  all  this  that 
Mrs  Bowater  seemed  already  lost  to  me,  and  I  twice  an  orphan. 
We  talked  on  together  in  low,  cautious  voices.  After  a  single 
sharp,  cold  glance  at  my  visitor,  Fleming  had  left  us  to  our- 
selves over  an  enormous  silver  teapot.  I  grew  so  nervous  at 
last,  watching  Mrs  Bowater's  slow  glances  of  disapproval  at  her 
surroundings ;  her  hot,  tired  face ;  and  listening  to  her  long 
drawn  sighs,  that  again  and  again  I  lost  the  thread  of  what 
she  was  saying,  and  could  answer  Yes,  or  No,  only  by  instinct. 

What  with  an  antiquated  time-table,  a  mislaid  railway  ticket, 
and  an  impudent  'bus-conductor,  her  journey  had  been  a  trying 
experience.  I  discovered,  too,  that  Mrs  Bowater  disliked  the 
West  End.  She  had  first  knocked  at  No.  4  by  mistake.  Its 
butler  had  known  nothing  whatever  at  all  about  any  Miss  M., 
and  Mrs  Bowater  had  been  too  considerate  to  specify  my  dimen- 
sions. She  had  then  shared  a  few  hot  moments  in  the  porch 
of  No.  2  with  a  more  fashionable  visitor — to  neither's  satisfaction. 
A  manservant  had  admitted  her  to  Mrs  Monnerie's  marble 
halls  and  "barefaced"  statuary,  and  had  apparently  thought  the 
large  parcel  she  carried  in  her  arms  should  have  been  delivered 
in  the  area. 

She  bore  no  resentment,  though  I  myself  felt  a  little  uneasy. 
Life  was  like  that,  she  seemed  to  imply,  and  she  had  been  no 
party  to  it.  There  was  no  doubt  a  better  world  where  things 
would  be  different — it  was  extraordinary  what  a  number  of  con- 
flicting sentiments  she  could  convey  in  a  pause  or  a  shut  of 
her  mouth.  Black  and  erect,  she  sat  glooming  over  that  alien 
teapot,  sipping  Mrs  Monnerie's  colourless  China  tea,  firmly  de- 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

dining  to  grimace  at  its  insipidity,  until  she  had  told  me  all 
there  was  to  tell. 

At  last,  having  gathered  herself  together,  she  exhorted  me 
to  write  to  that  young  Mr  Anon.  "I  see  a  fidelity  one  might 
almost  say  dog-like,  miss,  on  that  face,  apart,  as  I  have  reasons 
for  supposing,  from  a  sufficiency  in  his  pocket.  Though,  the 
Lord  knows,  you  are  young  yet  and  seemingly  in  no  need  of  a 
home." 

Parcel,  reticule,  umbrella — she  bent  over  me  with  closed  eyes, 
and  muttered  shamefacedly  that  she  had  remembered  me  in 
her  Will,  "and  may  God  bless  you,  miss,  I'm  sure." 

I   clutched  the  gloved  hand   in  a  sudden  helpless   paroxysm 

of  grief  and  foreboding.     "Oh,  Mrs  Bowater,  you  forgive " 

I  choked,  and  still  no  words  would  come. 

She  was  gone,  past  recall;  and  all  the  love  and  gratitude  and 
remorse  I  had  longed  to  express  flooded  up  in  me.  Yet,  stuck 
up  there  in  my  chair,  my  chief  apprehension  had  been  that 
Fleming  might  come  in  again,  and  cast  yet  another  veiled,  sneering 
glance  at  my  visitor. 

Peering  between  the  gilded  balusters,  I  watched  my  old  friend 
droop  away  stiffly  down  the  mild,  lustrous  staircase,  bow  to 
the  man  who  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  emerge  into  the  sunny 
emptiness. 

Maybe  the  thought  had  drifted  across  her  mind  that  I  had 
indeed  been  dipped  in  the  dye-pot.  But  now — these  many  years 
afterwards — there  is  no  more  risk  of  misunderstanding.  It  is 
eight  o'clock ;  the  light  is  fading.  Chizzel  Hill  glows  green. 
I  hear  her  feebling  step  on  the  stairs.  She  will  peer  at  me  over 
spectacles  that  now  always  straddle  her  nose.  I  must  put  my 
pen  and  papers  away ;  and  I,  too,  have  made  my  Will. 


307 


Chapter  Thirty-Eight 

MRS  BOWATER'S  departure  from  England — and  it  seemed 
as  if  its  very  map  in  my  mind  had  become  dismally  empty 
— was  not  my  only  anxiety.  My  solicitors  had  hitherto 
been  prompt;  their  remittances  almost  monotonously  identical  in 
amount.  But  my  quarterly  allowance  on  Midsummer  Day,  had 
been  followed  by  a  letter  a  week  or  two  after  her  good-bye.  It 
seemed  to  be  in  excellent  English,  and  yet  it  was  all  but  unin- 
telligible to  me.  Every  re-reading  of  it — the  paper  had  apparently 
been  dipped  in  water  and  dried — increased  its  obscurity  and  my 
alarm.  I  knew  nothing  about  money  matters,  and  the  encyclo- 
paedia I  consulted  only  made  me  more  dejected  and  confused. 
I  remembered  with  remorse  my  poor  father's  last  troubles. 
To  answer  the  Harrises  was  impossible,  and  further  study  of 
their  letter  soon  became  unnecessary,  for  I  had  learned  it  by  heart. 

The  one  thing  certain  was  that  Fanny's  wolf  had  begun 
scratching  at  my  door :  that  my  income  was  in  imminent  danger. 
I  had  long  since  squandered  the  greater  part  of  what  remained 
out  of  my  savings  (after  Fanny  had  helped  herself)  on  presents 
and  fal-lals;  merely,  I  am  afraid,  to  show  Mrs  Monnerie  that 
I,  too,  could  be  extravagant.  How  much  I  owed  her  I  could 
not  even  conjecture,  and  had  not  dared  to  inquire.  To  ask 
her  counsel  was  equally  impossible.  She  was  almost  as  remote 
from  me  in  this  respect  as  Mrs  Bowater,  now  in  the  centre  of 
the  Atlantic.  As  for  Fanny,  I  had  returned  her  postal  orders 
and  had  heard  no  more. 

For  days  and  days  gloom  hung  over  me  like  a  thundercloud. 
Wherever  I  went  I  was  followed  by  the  spectres  of  the  Harrises. 
Then,  for  a  time,  as  do  all  things,  foreboding  and  anxiety  gradu- 
ally faded  off.  I  plunged  back  into  the  cream-bowl  with  the 
deliberate  intention  of  drowning  trouble. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  not  forgotten  Fanny's  "sinecure."  One 
mackerel-skied  afternoon,  Mrs  Monnerie  and  I  and  Susan  were 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

returning  across  the  Park  from  an  "At  Home" — "to  meet  Miss 
M."  A  small  child  of  the  house  had  richly  entertained  the  com- 
pany by  howling  with  terror  at  sight  of  me,  until  he  had  been 
removed  by  his  nurse.  I  bear  him  no  grudge;  he  made  a  peg 
on  which  to  hang  Fanny's  proposal. 

"And  what  can  Miss  Bowater  do?  What  are  her  qualifi- 
cations?" Mrs  Monnerie  inquired  pleasantly. 

"She  is— dark  and— pale,"  I  replied,  staring  a  little  giddily 
out  of  the  carriage  at  the  sheep  munching  their  way  over  the 
London  grass. 

"Dark  and  pale?"  mused  Mrs  Monnerie.  "Well,  that  goes 
nearer  the  bone,  perhaps,  than  medals  and  certificates  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  Still,  a  rather  Jane  Eyreish  kind  of  governess, 
eh,   Susan?" 

Unfortunately  I  was  acquainted  with  only  one  of  the  Miss 
Brontes,  and  that  not  Charlotte. 

"Miss  Bowater  is  immensely  clever,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  I  hurried 
on,  "and  extremely  popular  with — with  the  other  mistresses,  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  She's  not  a  bit  what  you  might  guess  from 
what  you  might  suppose." 

"Which  means,  I  gather,"  commented  Mrs  Monnerie  affably, 
"that  Miss  Bowater  is  the  typical  landlady's  daughter.  A  perfect 
angel  in — or  out  of — the  house,  eh,  Miss  Innocent?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "I  don't  think  Miss  Bowater  is  an  angel.  She 
is  so  interesting,  so  hcrsclUsh,  you  know.  She  simply  couldn't 
be  happy  at  Miss  Stebbings's — the  school  where  she's  teaching 
now.  It's  not  salary,  Mrs  Monnerie,  she  is  thinking  of — just 
two  nice  children  and  their  mother,  that's  all." 

This  vindication  of  Fanny  left  me  uncomfortably  hot;  I 
continued  to  gaze  fixedly  into  the  green  distances  of  the  park. 

Yet  all  was  well.  Mrs  Monnerie  appeared  to  be  satisfied 
with  my  testimonial.  "You  shall  give  me  her  address,  little 
Binbin ;  and  we'll  have  a  look  at  the  young  lady,"  she  decided. 

Yet  I  was  none  too  happy  at  my  success.  Those  familiar  old 
friends  of  mine — motives — began  worrying  me.  Would  the 
change  be  really  good  for  Fanny?  Would  it — and  I  had  better 
confess  that  this  troubled  me  the  most — would  it  be  really  good 
for  me  ?  I  wanted  to  help  her ;  I  wanted  also  to  show  her 
off.     And  what  a  joy  it  would  be  if  she  should  change  into  the 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Fanny  of  my  dreams.  On  the  other  hand,  supposing  she  didn't. 
On  the  whole,  I  rather  dreaded  the  thought  of  her  appearance  at 
No.  2. 

Susan  followed  me  into  my  room.  "Who  is  this  Miss 
Bowater?"  she  inquired,  "besides,  I  mean,  being  your  landlady's 
daughter,  and  that  kind  of  thing?" 

But  my  further  little  confidences  failed  to  satisfy  her. 

"But  why  is  she  so  not  an  angel,  then?  Clever  and  lovely 
— it's  a  rather  unusual  combination,  you  know.  And  yet" — 
she  reflectively  smiled  at  me,  all  candour  and  gentleness — "well 
not  unique." 

I  ran  away  as  fast  as  ever  I  could  with  so  endearing  a 
compliment — and  tossed  it  back  again  over  my  shoulder :  "You 
don't  mean,  Susan,  that  you  are  not  clever  ?" 

"I  do,  my  dear;  indeed  I  do.  I  am  so  stupid  that  unless 
things  are  as  plain  and  open  as  the  nose  on  my  face,  I  feel  like 
suffocating.  I'm  dreadfully  out  of  the  fashion — a  horrible  dis- 
credit to  my  sex.  As  for  Miss  Bowater,  I  was  merely  being 
odious,  that  was  all.  To  be  quite  honest  and  hateful — I  didn't 
like  the  sound  of  her.  And  Aunt  Alice  is  so  easily  carried  away 
by  any  new  scent.  If  a  thing's  a  novelty,  or  just  good  to  look 
at,  or  what  they  call  a  work  of  art — why,  the  hunt's  up.  There 
wouldn't  have  been  any  use  for  the  Serpent  in  her  Eden.  Mere 
things,  of  course,  don't  matter  much:  except  that  they  rather 
lumber  up  one's  rooms ;  and  I  prefer  not  to  live  in  a  museum. 
It's  when  it  comes  to  persons.  Still,  it  isn't  as  if  Miss  Bowater 
was  coming  here." 

I  remained  silent,  thinking  this  speech  over.  Had  it,  I 
speculated,  "come  to"  being  a  "person"  in  my  own  case? 

"Did  you  meet  any  other  interesting  people  there?"  Miss 
Monnerie  went  on,  as  if  casually,  turning  off  and  on  the  while 
the  little  cluster  of  coloured  electric  globes  that  was  on  my 
table.  "I  mean  besides  Miss  Bowater  and  that  poor,  dreadful 
— you  know?" 

"No,"  I  said  bluntly,  "not  many." 

"You  don't  mind  my  asking  these  questions?  And  just 
in  exchange,  you  solemn  thing,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret.  It  will 
be  like  shutting  it  up  in  the  delightfullest,  delicatest  little  rose- 
310 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

bud  of  a  box!"  In  that  instant's  pause,  it  was  as  if  a  dream 
had  passed  swiftly,  entrancingly,  across  the  grave,  smiling  face. 

"Look!"  she  said,  stooping  low,  and  laying  her  slim  left 
hand,  palm  downwards,  across  my  table.  I  did  look ;  and  the 
first  thing  I  noticed  was  how  like  herself  that  hand  was,  and 
how  much  less  vigorous  and  formidable  than  Fanny's.  And 
then  I  caught  her  meaning. 

"Oh,  Susan,"  I  cried  in  a  woeful  voice,  gazing  at  the  smoulder- 
ing stones  ringing  that  long  slim  third  finger,  "wherever  I  turn, 
I  hear  that." 

"Hear  what?" 

"Why,  of  love,  I  mean." 

"But  why,  why?"  the  narrow  brows  lifted  in  faint  distress, 
"I  am  going  to  be  ever  so  happy." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  know,  I  know.     But  why  can't  you  be  happy  alone?" 

She  looked  at  me,  and  a  faint  red  dusked  the  delicate  cheek. 
"Not  so  happy.     Not  me,  I  mean." 

"You  do  love  him,  then?"  the  words  jerked  out. 

"Why,  you  strange  thing,  how  curiously  you  speak  to  me. 
Of  course  I  love  him.     I  am  going  to  marry  him." 

"But  how  do  you  know  ?"  I  persisted.  "Does  it  mean  more 
to  you — well — than  the  secret  of  everything?  I  mean,  what 
comes  when  one  is  almost  nothing?  Does  it  make  you  more 
yourself?  or  just  break  you  in  two?  or  melt  you  away? — oh, 
like  a  mist  that  is  gone,  and  to  every  petal  and  blade  of  grass 
its  drop  of  burning  water?" 

A  shade  of  dismay,  almost  of  fear — the  look  a  timid  animal 
gives  when  startled — stole  into  her  eyes.  "You  ask  such  odd 
questions!  How  can  I  answer  them?  I  know  this — I  would 
rather  die  than  not.     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

"Oh,"  my  voice  fainted  away — disappointment,  darkness,  ennui ; 
"only  that!" 

"But  what  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  saying?  Have 
you  been  told  all  this?     It  disturbs  me;  your   face  is  like " 

"Yes!  what  is  it  like?"  I  cried  in  distress,  myself  sinking 
back  into  myself,  as  if  hiding  in  a  lair. 

"I    can't   say,"   she   faltered.     "I    didn't   know  .  .  ." 

We  talked  on.  But  though  I  tried  to  blur  over  and  with- 
draw what  I  had  said,  she  remained  dissatisfied.     A  thin  edge 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  formality  had  for  the  moment  pushed  in  between  us. 
That  night  I  addressed  a  belated  letter  to  Wanderslore,  re- 
proaching Mr  Anon  for  not  writing  to  me,  telling  him  of  Mrs 
Bowater's  voyage,  and  begging  him  to  assure  the  garden-house 
and  the  fading  summer  flowers  that  they  had  not  been  deserted 
in  my  dreams. 

At  a  quarter  to  twelve  one  morning,  soon  after  this,  I  was 
sitting  with  Mrs  Monnerie  on  a  stool  beneath  Chakka's  cage,  and 
Susan  was  just  about  to  leave  us — was  actually  smoothing  on 
the  thumb  of  her  glove ;  when  Marvell  announced  that  a  Miss 
Bowater  had  called.     I  turned  cold  all  over  and  held  my  breath. 

"Ah,"  whispered  Mrs  Monnerie,  "your  future  Mrs  Rochester, 
my  pet." 

Every  thought  scuttled  out  of  my  head;  my  needle  jerked 
and  pricked  my  thumb.  I  gazed  at  the  door.  Never  had  I 
seen  anything  so  untransparent.  Then  it  opened ;  and — there  was 
Fanny.  She  was  in  dark  gray — a  gown  I  had  never  seen  before. 
A  tight  little  hat  was  set  demurely  on  her  hair.  In  that  first 
moment,  she  had  not  noticed  me,  and  I  could  steal  a  long, 
steady  look  at  the  still,  light,  vigilant  eyes,  drinking  in  at  one 
steady  draught  their  new  surroundings.  Her  features  wore  the 
thinnest,  unfamiliar  mask,  like  a  flower  seen  in  an  artificial 
light.  What  wonder  I  had  loved  her.  My  hands  went  numb, 
and  a  sudden  fatigue  came  over  me. 

Then  her  quiet,  travelling  glance  descended  and  hovered  in 
secret  colloquy  with  mine.  She  dropped  me  a  little  smiling, 
formal  nod,  moistened  her  lips,  and  composed  herself  for  Mrs 
Monnerie.  And  it  was  then  I  became  conscious  that  Susan 
had  quietly  slipped  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  a  peculiar  experience  to  listen  to  the  catechism  that 
followed.  From  the  absorption  of  her  attitude,  the  large,  side- 
long head,  the  motionless  hands,  it  was  clear  that  Mrs  Monnerie 
found  a  good  deal  to  interest  her  in  the  dark,  attentive  figure 
that  stood  before  her.  If  Fanny  had  been  Joan  of  Arc,  she 
could  not  have  had  a  more  single-minded  reception.  Yet  I  was 
enjoying  a  duel :  a  duel  not  of  wits,  but  of  intuitions,  between  the 
sagacious,  sardonic,  watchful  old  lady,  soaked  in  knowledge  of 
humanity  but,  as  far  as  I  could  discover,  with  extraordinarily  small 
312 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

respect  for  it,  and — Fanny.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  Fanny 
easily  held  her  own;  jnst  by  being  herself,  without  revealing 
herself.  Face,  figure,  voice;  that  was  all.  I  could  not  take  my 
eyes  away.  If  only,  I  thought,  my  own  ghost  would  keep  as 
quiet  and  hidden  as  that  in  the  presence  of  others. 

Perhaps  I  exaggerate.  Love,  living  or  dying,  even  if  it  is 
not  blind,  cannot,  I  suppose,  focus  objects  very  precisely.  It 
sees  only  itself  or  disillusionment.  Whether  or  not,  the  duel 
was  interrupted.  In  the  full  light  of  the  window,  Fanny  turned 
softly  at  the  opening  of  the  door.  Marvell  was  announcing  an- 
other caller.  At  his  name  my  heart  leapt  up  like  William  Words- 
worth's at  the  rainbow.     It  was  Sir  Walter  Pollacke. 

"This  is  your  visitor,  Poppet,"  Mrs  Monnerie  waggishly  as- 
sured me,  "you  shall  have  half  an  hour's  tete-a-tete." 


313 


Chapter  Thirty-Nine 


SO  it  was  with  a  deep  sigh — half  of  regret  at  being  called  away, 
and  all  of  joy  at  the  thought  of  seeing  my  old  friend  again — 
that  I  followed  Marvell's  coat-tails  over  the  threshold.  With 
a  silly,  animal-like  affection  I  brushed  purposely  against  Fanny's 
skirts  as  I  passed  her  by ;  and  even  smirked  in  a  kind  of  secret 
triumph  at  Percy  Maudlen,  who  happened  to  be  idling  on  the 
staircase  as   I  hastened   from   room  to  room. 

The  door  of  the  library  closed  gently  behind  me,  as  if  with 
a  breath  of  peace.  I  paused — looked  across.  Sir  Walter  was 
standing  at  the  further  end  of  its  high,  daylit,  solemn  spacious- 
ness. He  was  deep  in  contemplation  of  a  white  marble  bust 
that  graced  the  lofty  chimney-piece — so  rapt,  indeed,  that  until 
I  had  walked  up  into  the  full  stream  of  sunshine  from  a  nearer 
window  and  had  announced  my  approach  with  a  cough,  he 
did  not  notice  my  entrance.  Then  he  flicked  round  with  an 
exclamation  of  welcome. 

"My  dear,  dear  young  lady,"  he  cried,  beaming  down  on  me 
from  between  his  peaked  collar-tips,  over  his  little  black  bow, 
the  gold  rim  of  his  large  eye-glasses  pressed  to  his  lip,  "a  far — 
far  more  refreshing  sight!  Would  you  believe  it,  it  was  the 
pleasing  little  hobby  of  that  oiled  and  curled  monstrosity  up 
there — Heliogabalus — to  smother  his  guests  in  roses — literally, 
smother  them?  Now,"  and  he  looked  at  me  quizzically  as  if 
through  a  microscope,  "the  one  question  is  how  have  you  sur- 
vived what  I  imagine  must  have  been  a  similar  ordeal?  Not 
quite  at  the  last  gasp,  I  hope?  Comparatively  happy?  It's  all 
we  can  hope  for,  my  dear,  in  this  world." 

I  nodded,  hungrily  viewing  him,  meeting  as  best  I  could 
the  bright  blue  eyes,  and  realizing  all  in  a  moment  the  dark 
inward  of  my  mind. 

Those  other  eyes  began  thinking  as  well  as  looking.  "Well, 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

well,  that's  right.  And  now  we  must  have  a  little  quiet  talk 
lit.' fore  his  Eminence  reappears.  So  our  old  frieml  Mrs  Bowater 
has    gone    husband-hunting?     Gallant    soul:    she    came    to    see 


me." 


Squatted  up  on  a  crimson  leather  stool,  I  must  have  looked 
the  picture  of  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  he  assured  me,  "there  are  divinities  that  shape  our 
ends;  and  Mrs  Bowater  is  one  of  them.     If  anything  can  hasten 

her  husband's  recovery But  never  mind  that.     She  has  left 

me  in  charge.  And  here  I  am.  The  question  is,  can  we  have 
too  many  trustees,  guardians?  Perhaps  not.  Look  at  the  Koh- 
i-Noor,  now." 

I  much  preferred  to  continue  to  look  at  Sir  Walter,  even 
though,  from  the  moment  I  had  entered  the  room,  at  least  five 
or  six  voices  had  begun  arguing  in  my  mind.  And  here,  as  if 
positively  in  answer  to  them,  was  his  very  word — trustee.  I 
pounced  on  it  like  a  wasp  on  a  plum.  It  was  a  piece  of  temerity 
that  saved  me  from — well,  as  I  sit  thinking  things  over  in  quiet 
and  leisure  in  my  old  Stonecote,  the  house  of  my  childhood,  I 
don't  know  what  it  hasn't  saved  me  from. 

"Too  many  trustees,  Sir  Walter?"  I  breathed.  "I  suppose, 
not — if  they  are  honest." 

"But  bless  me,  my  dear  young  lady,"  his  face  seemed  to  be 
shining  like  the  sun's  in  mist;  "whose  heresies  are  these?  Have 
they  given  you  a  French  maid?" 

•'Fleming;  oh,  no,"  I  replied,  laughing  out,  "she's  a  Woman 
of  Kent,  all  but.  What  I  was  really  thinking  is,  that  I  would, 
if  I  may — and  please  forgive  me — very  much  like  to  show  you 
a  letter.  I  simply  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  But  it's  dread- 
fully— suggestive." 

"My  dear,  I  came  in  certain  hope  of  being  shown  nothing 
less  vital  than  your  heart,"  he  retorted  gallantly. 

So  off  I  went — with  my  visitor  all  encouraging  smiles  as  he 
opened  the  door  for  me — to  fetch  my  lawyer's  bombshell. 

Glasses  on  tip  of  his  small,  hawklike  nose,  Sir  Walter's  glitter- 
ing eyes  seemed  to  master  this  obscure  document  at  one  swoop. 

"H'm,"  he  said  cautiously,  and  once  more  communed  with 
the  bust  of  Heliogabalus.  "Now  what  did  you  think  of  it  all? 
Was  it  worth  six  and  eightpence,  do  you  think?" 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 


<<i 


'I  couldn't  think.  It  frightened  me.  'The  Shares,'  you  know. 
Whose  Shares?     Of  what?     I'm  terribly,  terribly  ignorant." 

"Ah,"  he  echoed,  "the  Shares — as  the  blackbird  said  to  the 
Cherry  Tree.  And  there  was  nobody,  you  thought,  to  discuss 
the  letter  with?     You  didn't  answer  it?" 

"Nobody,"  said  I,  with  a  shake  of  my  head,  and  smoothing  my 
silk  skirts  over  my  knees. 

"Why,  of  course  not,"  he  sparkled.  "You  see  how  admirably 
things  work  out.  Miss  Fenne,  Mr  Pellew,  Mrs  Bowater,  my 
wife,  Tom  o'  Bedlam,  Hypnos,  Mrs  Monnerie,  Mr  Bowater, 
Mrs  Bowater,  the  Harrises,  Me.  'Pon  my  word,  you'd  think 
it  was  a  plot.  Now,  supposing  I  keep  this  letter — could  you 
trust  it  with  me  for  a  while? — and  supposing  I  see  these  gentle- 
men, and  make  a  few  inquiries ;  and  that  in  the  meantime — we 
— we  bottle  the  Cherries?  But  first,  I  must  have  a  little  more 
information.  Your  father,  my  dear.  Let's  just  unbosom  our- 
selves of  all  this  horrible  old  money-grubbing,  and  see  exactly 
how  we  stand." 

I  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  poured  out  helter-skelter 
all  (how  very  little,  in  my  girlish  folly)  that  I  knew  about  my 
father's  affairs,  and  of  how  I  had  been  "left." 

"And  Miss  Fenne,  now?"  he  peered  out,  as  if  at  my  god- 
mother herself.  "Why  didn't  she  send  word  to  France  ?  Where 
is  this  providential  step-grandfather,  Monsieur  Pierre  de  Ronvel, 
all  this  time?     Not  dead  too?" 

Shamefully  I  had  to  confess  that  I  did  not  know ;  had  not 
even  inquired.  "It  is  my  miserable  ingratitude.  I  just  blow 
hot  and  cold ;  that  is  my  nature." 

"Well,  well,  it  may  be  so."  He  smiled  at  me,  as  if  out  of 
the  distance,  with  the  serenest  kindliness.  "But  you  and  I  are 
going  to  share  the  temperate  zone — a  cool,  steady,  Trade  Wind." 

"If  only,"  I  smiled,  taking  him  up  on  this  familiar  ground, 
"if  only  I  could  keep  clear  of  the  Tropics — and  that  Sargasso 
Sea!"  ' 

At  this  little  sally  he  gleamed  at  me  as  goldenly  as  the  spade 
guinea  that  dangled  on  his  waistcoat.  Then  he  rose  and  sur- 
veyed one  by  one  a  row  of  silent,  sumptuous  tomes  in  their  glazed 
retreat:  "The  Sargasso  Sea;  h'm,  h'm,  h'm ;  and  one  might  sup- 
pose," he  cast  a  comprehensive  glance  at  the  taciturn  shelves 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

around  and  above  us,  "one  might  suppose  the  tuppenny  box  would 
afford  some  of  these  a  more  sociable  haven." 

But  this  was  Greek  to  me.  "Mrs  Monnerie  is  generous?"  he 
went  on,  "indulgent?  Groundsel,  seed,  sugar,  and  a  Fleming. 
Yet  perhaps  the  door  might  be  pushed  just  an  inch  or  two 
farther  open,  eh?  What  I'm  meaning,  my  dear,  is,  will  you 
perhaps  wait  in  patience  a  little?  And  if  anything  should  go 
amiss,  will  you  make  me  a  promise  to  send  just  a  wisp  of  a  word 
and  a  penny  stamp  to  an  old  friend  who  will  be  doing  his  best? 
The  first  lawyer,  you  know,  was  a  waif  that  was  adopted  by  a 
tortoise  and  a  fox.  Now  I'm  going  to  be  a  mole — with  its  fur 
on  the  bias,  as  Miss  Rossetti  happened  to  notice — and  burrow. 
So  you  see,  all  will  come  well !" 

I  must  have  been  sitting  very  straight  and  awkward  on  my 
stool,  and  not  heeding  what  my  face  was  telling. 

"Is  there  anything  else  distressing  you,  my  dear?"  he  asked 
anxiously,  almost  timidly. 

"Only  myself,"  I  muttered.  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any 
end  to  it  all.  I  grope  on  and  on,  and — the  kindness  only  makes 
it  worse.  Can  there  be  a  riddle,  Sir  Walter,  that  hasn't  any 
answer?  I  remember  reading  in  a  book  that  was  given  me 
that  Man  'comes  into  the  world  like  morning  mushrooms.'  Don't 
you  think  that's  true;  even,  I  mean,  of — everybody?" 

But  his  views  on  this  subject  were  not  to  be  shared  with 
me  for  many  a  long  day.  Our  half-hour  was  over;  and  there 
stood  Mrs  Monnerie,  mushroom-shaped,  it  is  true,  but  suggesting 
nothing  of  the  evanescent,  as  she  looked  in  on  us  from  the 
mahogany   doorway. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Sir  Walter,"  she  greeted  him.  "If  it  hadn't 
been  for  an  exceedingly  interesting  young  creature  disguised. 
I  understand,  as  a  Miss  Bowater,  I  should  have  had  the  happi- 
ness of  seeing  you  earlier.  And  how  is  our  Peri  looking,  do 
you  think?" 

"How  is  our  Peri  looking?"  he  repeated  musingly,  poising 
himself,  and  eyeing  me,  on  his  flat,  gleaming  boots;  "why,  Mrs 
Monnerie,  as  I  suppose  a  Peri  should  be  looking — into  Paradise." 

"Then,  my  Peri,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie  blandly,  "ask  Sir  Walter 
to  be  a  complete  angel,  and  stay  to  luncheon." 

Zl7 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Mrs  Monnerie,  I  remember,  was  in  an  unusually  vivacious 
humour  at  that  meal ;  and  devoured  immense  quantities  of  salmon 
mayonnaise.  One  might  have  supposed  that  Fanny's  influence 
had  added  a  slim  crescent  of  silvery  light  to  her  habitual 
earthshine.  None  the  less,  when  our  guest  was  gone,  she  seemed 
to  subside  into  a  shallow  dejection;  and  I  into  a  much  deeper. 
We  sate  on  together  in  an  uneasy  silence,  she  pushing  out  her 
lips,  restlessly  prodding  Cherry  with  her  foot,  and  occasionally 
uttering  some  inarticulate  sound  that  was  certainly  not  intended 
as  conversation. 

I  think  Mrs  Monnerie  was  in  secret  a  more  remarkable  woman 
than  she  affected  to  be.  However  thronged  a  room  might  be, 
you  could  never  be  unaware  that  she  was  in  it.  And  in  the 
gentle  syllabub  of  polite  conversation  her  silence  was  like  that 
of  an  ancient  rock  with  the  whispering  of  the  wavelets  on  the 
sands  at  its  base.  I  remember  once  seeing  a  comic  picture  of 
an  old  lady  with  a  large  feather  in  her  bonnet  placidly  sitting 
on  a  camp-stool  beneath  a  pollard  willow  on  one  side  of  a  stream, 
while  a  furious,  frothing  bull  stood  snorting  and  rampaging 
on  the  other.  I  think  the  old  lady  in  the  picture  was  meant 
to  be  Britannia ;  but,  whoever  or  whatever  the  bull  might  rep- 
resent, Mrs  Monnerie  reminded  me  of  her.  She  sat  more 
heavily,  more  passively,  in  her  chair  than  any  one  I  have  ever 
seen. 

Of  course — quite  apart  from  intelligence — there  must  be  many, 
many  layers  in  society,  and  I  cannot  say  at  all  how  far  Mrs 
Monnerie  was  from  the  topmost.  But  I  am  sure  she  was  able 
to  look  down  on  a  good  many  of  them ;  while  I  was  born 
always  to  be  "looking  up."  I  was  looking  up  at  Mrs  Monnerie 
now  from  my  stool.  Widespread  in  her  chair,  she  had  closed 
her  eyes,  and  to  judge  from  her  face,  she  was  dreaming.  It 
looked  more  faded  than  usual.  The  puckers  gave  it  a  prunish 
look.  Queer,  contorting  expressions  were  floating  across  her 
features.  Her  soul  seemed  gently  to  rock  in  them,  like  an  empty 
boat  at  night  on  a  dark  river.  In  the  pride  of  my  youth 
— and  a  little  uneasy  over  my  confidences  with  Sir  Walter — I 
examined  my  patroness  with  a  slight  stirring  of  dismay. 

"Oh,  no,  no!  never  to  grow  old,  not  me,"  a  voice  was  saying 
in  me.  Yet,  after  all,  I  reminded  myself,  I  was  looking  only  at 
3i8 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Mrs  Monnerie's  outer  case.  But  then,  after  all,  was  it  only  that? 
"The  Resurrection  of  the  body."  One  may  see  day  at  a  little 
hole ;  says  an  old  proverb — 1  hope  a  Kentish  proverb.  And 
from  Mrs  Monnerie,  my  thoughts  drifted  away  to  Fanny.  She 
would  grow  old  too.  Should  we  know  one  another  then  ?  Should 
we  understand,  and  remember  what  it  was  to  be  young  ?  We  had 
had  our  secrets. 

1  came  out  of  these  reflections  to  find  Mrs  Monnerie's  sleepy 
eyes  fixed  full  upon  me;  and  herself  marvellously  cheered  up 
by  her  nap.  She  had  thought  very  well  of  Miss  Bowater,  she 
told  me.  So  well  that  she  not  only  very  soon  found  her  a 
charming  engagement  as  a  morning  governess  to  the  two  little 
girls  of  a  rich  fashionable  widow — just  Fanny's  "sinecure*' — but 
invited  her  to  stay  at  No.  2  as  a  "companion"  to  herself,  until 
a  more  permanent  post  offered  itself. 

"You  and  I  want  more  company,"  she  assured  me ;  "other- 
wise the  Hint  will  use  up  all  the  tinder,  or  vice  versa,  my  dear. 
A  pretty  creature  and  no  fool.  She  sings  a  little,  too,  she  tells 
me.     So  we  shall  have  music  wherever  she  goes." 

That  afternoon  both  flint  and  tinder — whichever  of  us  was 
which — were  kept  very  busy.  Mrs  Monnerie  fell  into  one  of 
her  long  monologues,  broken  only  by  Chakka's  griding  on  his 
bars,  and  Cherry's  whimpering  in  his  dreams.  It  was  another 
kind  of  "white  meat"  for  me:  and  though,  no  doubt,  I  was 
incapable  of  digesting  all  Mrs  Monnerie's  views  on  life,  society, 
and  the  world  at  large,  I  realized  that  if  in  the  course  of  time  it 
might  be  my  fate  to  wither  and  wizen  away,  I  should  still  have 
my  own  company  and  plenty  of  internal  entertainment.  I 
actually  saw  myself  a  little  bent-ulp,  old,  midget  woman  creeping 
down  some  stone  steps  out  of  a  porch,  with  a  fanlight,  under 
a  street  lamp.  It  curdled  my  blood,  that  picture.  And  yet, 
I  thought,  what  must  be,  must  be.  I  will  endure  to  be  a  little, 
bent-up,  old,  midget  woman,  creeping  down  stone  steps  out  of 
a  porch  with  a  fanlight.  And  I  even  nodded  up  at  the  street 
lamp. 

In  response  to  a  high-spirited  scrawl  from  Fanny.  I  sent  her 
all  that  was  left  of  my  savings  to  purchase  "those  horrible  little 
etceteras  that  just  feather  down  the  scales,  Midgetina.  It  would 
be  saintlike  of  you,  and  you  won't  miss   it   there"     It  was  a 

319 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

desperate  wrench  to  me  to  see  the  last  of  my  money  disappear. 
I  knew  no  more  than  the  Man  in  the  Moon  where  the  next 
was  to  come  from. 

I  counted  the  days  to  Fanny's  coming ;  and  dressed  mysell 
for  the  occasion  in  the  most  expensive  gold  and  blue  afternoon 
gown  I  possessed.  It  must  have  been  with  a  queer,  mixed  motive 
in  my  head.  I  sat  waiting  for  her,  while  beyond  the  gloom-hung 
window  raged  a  London  thunderstorm,  with  dense  torrents  of  rain. 
My  little  silver  clock  struck  three,  and  she  entered  my  room 
like  a  black  swan,  tossing  from  her  small,  velveted  head,  as  she 
did  so,  a  few  beads  of  rain.  From  top  to  toe  in  deadest  black. 
She  must  have  noticed  my  glance  of  wonderment. 

"When  you  want  to  make  a  favourable  impression  on  youi 
social  superiors,  Midgetina,  the  meeker  you  look  the  better,"  she 
said. 

But  this  was  not  the  only  reason  for  her  black.  Only  a 
day  or  two  before,  she  told  me,  a  letter  had  come  from  her 
mother.  .  .  .  "My  father  is  dead."  The  words  dropped  out  as 
if  they  were  quite  accustomed  to  one  another's  company.  But 
those  which  followed — "blood-poisoning,"  "mortification,"  hung 
up  in  my  mind — in  that  interminable  gallery — a  hideous  picture. 
I  could  only  sit  and  stare  at  the  motionless  figure  outlined  against 
the  sepulchral  window. 

"It  is  awful,  awful,  Fanny!"  I  managed  to  whisper  at  last. 
"It  never  stops.  One  after  another  they  all  go.  Think  how  he 
must  have  longed  to  be  home.  And  now  to  be  buried — out  there 
— nothing  but   strangers." 

A  vacancy  came  over  my  mind  in  which  I  seemed  to  see 
the  dead  Mr  Bo  water  of  my  photograph  rising  like  Lazarus  in 
his  grave-cloths  out  of  his  foreign  tomb,  and  looking  in- 
credulously around  him. 

"And  your  mother,  Fanny!  Out  there,  too — those  miles  and 
miles  of  sea  away !" 

Fanny  made  no  movement,  though  I  fancied  that  her  eyes 
wandered  uneasily  towards  the  door.  "I  quite  agree,  Midgetina; 
it's  awful!"  she  said.  "But  really  and  truly,  it's  worse  for  me. 
I  think  I  am  like  my  father  in  some  ways.  Mother  never  really 
understood  him.  You  can't  talk  a  man  different;  and  for  that 
matter  holding  your  tongue  at  him  is  not  much  good  either. 
320 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

You  must  just  lie  in  wait  for  him  with — well,  with  your  charms, 
I  suppose." 

The  word  sounded  like  a  sneer.  "Still,  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  it  was  all  pure  filial  bliss  for  me  when  he  was  at  home, 
until,  at  least,  I  grew  up.  Then  he  and  I  quarrelled  too;  but 
that's  pleasure  itself  by  comparison  with  listening  to  other  people 
at  it.  He  did  his  best  to  spoil  me,  I  suppose.  He  wanted  to 
make  a  lady  of  me."  She  turned  and  smiled  out  of  the  window; 
her  under-lip  quivering  and  casting  a  faint  shadow  on  the  smooth 
skin  beneath.  "So  here  I  am;  though  I  fear  you  can't  make 
ladies  of  quite  the  correct  consistency  out  of  dressmaker's  clothes 
and  a  smarter  of  Latin.  The  salt  will  out.  But  there,"  she  flu 
a  little  gesture  with  her  glove,  "as  I  say.  here  1  am." 

And  as  if    for  welcome,  a  gleam  of  lightning  danced  at  the 
window,    illumining   us   there,    and    a   crackling   peal   of    train 
rolled  hollowly  off  over  the  roof-tops  of  the  square.     We  listened 
until  the  sound  had  emptied  itself  into  quiet;  and  only  the  rain 
in  the  gutters  gurgled  and  babbled. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  with  a  far-away  challenging 
thrill  in  her  low,  mournful  voice,  "I  don't  think  I  have  a  solitary 
relation  left  in  the  world  now — except  mother.  'They  are  all 
gone  into  a  world  of  light' — though  I've  now  and  then  sus- 
pected that  a  few  of  the  disreputable  ones  have  been  buried  alive. 
There's  nothing  very  dreadful  in  that.  Life  consists,  of  course, 
in  shedding  various  kinds  of  skin — and  tanning  the  remainder." 

Fanny,  then,  was  unaware  that  Mrs  Bowater  was  not  her 
real  mother.     And  I  think  she  never  guessed  it. 

"Nor  have  I,"  I  said,  "not  one."  As  I  looked  at  it  there, 
it  seemed  a  fact  more  curious  than  tragic.  Besides,  in  the 
brooding  darkness  of  that  room  it  was  Fanny  and  I  who  were 
strange,  external  beings,  not  the  memoried  phantoms  of  my 
mother  and  father.  We  had  still  to  go  on,  to  live  things  out. 
"So  you  see,  Fanny,"  I  continued,  after  a  pause,  "I  do  know 
what  it  means — a  little ;  and  we  must  try  more  than  ever  to 
be  really  one  another's  friend,  mustn't  we?  I  mean,  if  you 
think  I  can  be." 

"Why,  I  owe  you  pounds  and  pounds,"  cried  Fanny  gaily, 
pushing  back  her  handkerchief  into  ber  bodice.  "Here  we  are 
— not  quite  in  the  same  box,  perhaps ;  still  strangers  and  pilgrims. 

321 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Of  course  we  must  help  one  another.  .  .  .  Just  think  of  this 
house !  The  servants  !  The  folly  of  it,  and  all  for  Madame  Mon- 
nerie — though  I  wouldn't  mind  being  in  her  shoes,  even  for  one 
season.  Socialism,  my  dear,  is  all  a  question  of  shoes.  And 
this  is  Poppetkin's  little  boudoir?  A  pygmy  palace,  my  dear,  and 
if  only  the  lightning  would  last  a  little  longer  I  might  get  a 
real  glimpse  of  that  elfin  little  exquisite  over  there  in  her  beauti- 
ful blue  brocade.  But  then ;  it  will  be  roses  all  the  way  with 
you,  Miss  M.  You  are  independent,  and  valued  for  yourself 
alone." 

"How  different  people  are,  Fanny.  You  always  think  first 
of  the  use  of  a  thing,  and  I,  stupidly,  just  of  it — itself." 

"Do  we?"  she  said  indifferently,  and  rose  from  her  chair. 
"Anyhow  I'm  here  to  be  of  use.  And  who,"  she  remarked, 
with  a  little  yawn,  as  she  came  to  a  pause  again  beside  the 
streaming  window.  "Who  was  that  prim,  colourless  girl  with 
the  pale  blue  eyes  ?     Engaged  to  be  married." 

"But  Fanny,  she  had  her  gloves  on  that  morning,  I  remember 
it  as  clearly  as — as  I  always  remember  everything  where  you 
are:  how  could  you  possibly  tell  that  Susan  Monnerie  was 
engaged  ?" 

It  was  quite  a  simple  problem,  Fanny  tranquilly  assured  me: 
"The  ring  bulged  under  the  suede." 

Her  scornfulness  piqued  me  a  little.  "Anyhow,"  I  retorted, 
"Susan's  eyes  are  not  pale  blue.  They  are  almost  cornflower — ■ 
chicory  colour;  like  the  root  of  a  candle-flame." 

"Please,  Midgetina,"  Fanny  begged  me,  "don't  let  me  canker 
your  new  adoration.  Perhaps  you  preened  your  pretty  feathers 
in  them  when  they  were  fixed  on  the  demigod.  'Susan'!  I 
thought  all  the  Susans  perished  in  the  'sixties,  or  had  fled  down 
the  area.  And  who  is  he?"  But  she  did  not  follow  up  her  ques- 
tion. All  things  come  to  him  who  waits,  she  had  rambled  on 
inconsequently,  if  he  waits  long  enough ;  and  no  doubt  God  would 
temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  orphan  even  if  she  did  look  a 
perfect  frump  in  mourning. 

'You  know  you  could  never  look  a  frump,"  I  replied  indig- 
nantly, "even  if  you  hadn't  a  rag  on." 

Fanny  shrugged  her  dainty  shoulders.     "Alas!"  she  said. 

But  her  "orphan"  had  brought  me  back  with  a  guilty  shock 
322 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

to  what,  no  doubt,  was  an  extremely  fantastic  panorama  of 
Buenos  Ayres;  and  that  swiftly  back  again  to  Mr  (limbic.  For 
an  instant  or  two  I  looked  away.  Perhaps  it  was  my  caution 
that  betrayed  me. 

"It's  no  use,  Midgetina,"  she  sang  across  at  me  from  her 
window.  "Whether  it's  because  the  chemical  reactions  of  your 
pat  little  brain  are  more  intense  than  ordinary  people's,  or 
because  you  and  I  are  en  rapport,  I  can't  say.  But  there's  one 
thing  we  must  agree  upon  at  once  :  never,  never  again  to  mention 
his  name — at  least  in  this  house.     The  Crimble  chapter  is  closed." 

Closed  indeed.  But  so  sharp  were  her  tones  I  hadn't  the 
courage  to  warn  her  that  even  Susan  had  read  most  of  it.  Fanny 
came  near,  and,  stooping  as  Susan  had  stooped,  began  fidgeting 
with  the  button  of  my  electric  chandelier.  The  little  lamps 
shone  wanly  in  our  faces  in  the  cloud-darkened  room. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said  playfully,  "you  think  me  all 
mockery  and  heartlessness.  And  no  doubt  you  are  right.  But 
I  want  case  and  security:  just  like  that— as  if  I  were  writing  an 
essay — 'ease  and  security.'  I  don't  care  a  dash  about  affection — ■ 
at  least  without  the  aforesaid  F.  and  S.  I  intend  to  please 
Mrs  Monnerie,  and  she  is  going  to  be  grateful  to  me.  Don't  think 
I  am  being  'candid.'  I  should  have  no  objection  to  saying 
just  the  same  thing  to  Mrs  Monnerie  herself:  she'd  enjoy  it. 
Wait,  you  precious  inchy  image — wait  until  you  need  a  sup 
of  fatted  calf's-foot  jelly,  not  because  you  are  sick  of  husks,  but 
because  you  are  deadly  poor.  Then  you  will  understand.  These 
sumptuosities!  Wait  till  they  haven't  a  ha'penny  in  their  pockets, 
real  or  moral,  for  their  next  meal.  They  only  look  at  things — 
if  that ;  they  can't  know  what  they  are.  Even  to  be  decently 
charitable  one  must  have  been  a  beggar — and  cursed  the  philan- 
thropists.    Oh,  I  know :  and  Fanny's  race  is  for  Success." 

"But  surely,  Fanny,  a  thing  is  its  looks,  if  only  you  look  long 
enough.  And  I  should  just  like  to  hear  you  talking  if  you  were  in 
my  place.  Besides,  what  is  the  use  of  success — in  the  end,  I 
mean?  You  should  see  some  of  the  actresses  and  singers  and  au- 
thors and  that  kind  of  thing  Mrs  Monnerie  knows?  You 
wouldn't  have  realized  the  actresses  were  even  beautiful  unless  you 
had  been  told  so.  Why,  you  couldn't  even  say  the  World  is  a  suc- 
cess, except  in  the  country.     What  is  truly  the  use  of  it,  then?" 

323 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  had  grown  so  eager  in  my  argument  that  I  had  got  up  from  my 
chair. 

"The  use,  you  poor  thing  ?"  laughed  Fanny ;  "why,  only  as  a  kind 
of  face-cream  to  one's  natural  pride." 

The  day  was  lightening  now ;  but  at  that  the  whole  darkness  of 
my  own  situation  drew  close  about  me.  Success,  indeed.  What 
was  I?  Nothing  but  a  halfpennyless,  tame  pet  in  No.  2.  What 
salve  could  restore  to  me  my  natural  pride  ? 


324 


Chapter  Forty 


IN  happier  circumstances,  the  next  morning's  post  might  have 
reassured  me.     Two  letters  straddled  my  breakfast  tray,  for  I 
always  had  this  meal  in  my  own  room.     One  of  them  was 
from    Wanderslore — a    long,    crooked,    roundabout    letter,    that 
seemed  to  taunt,  upbraid,  and  entreat  me,  turn  and  turn  about. 
It  ended  with  a  proposal  of  marriage. 

In  most  of  the  novels  1  have  read,  the  heroine  simply  basks  in 
such  a  proposal,  even  though  scarcely  her  finger-tips  are  warmed 
by  its  rays.  For  my  part,  this  letter,  far  from  making  me  happy 
or  even  complacent,  produced  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  fretfulness 
and  shame.  Thrusting  it  back  into  its  envelope,  I  listened  a  while 
as  if  an  eavesdropper  might  have  overheard  my  silent  reading  of 
it — as  if  I  must  hide.  Then,  with  eyes  fixed  on  my  small  coffee- 
pot, I  sank  into  a  low,  empty  reverie. 

The  world  had  not  been  so  tender  to  my  feelings  as  to  refrain 
from  introducing  me  to  General  Tom  Thumb  and  Miss  Mercy  La- 
vinia  Bump  Warren. 

"A  pair  of  them!  how  quaint!  how  romantic!  how  touching!" 
I  saw  myself — gossamer  veil,  dwarfed  orange-blossom,  and  gyp- 
sophila  bouquet,  all  complete.  Perhaps  Mr.  Pellew — perhaps 
even  Miss  Fenne's  bishop,  would  officiate.  Possibly  Percy  would 
be  persuaded  to  "give  me  away."  And  what  a  gay  little  sniggling 
note  in  the  Morning  Post. 

I  came  out  of  these  sardonic  thoughts  with  cold  hands  and  a 
sneer  on  my  lips,  and  the  thought  that  I  had  seen  quite  as  con- 
spicuously paired  human  mates  even  though  their  size  was  beyond 
reproach.  Thank  goodness,  when  I  read  my  letter  again,  slightly 
better  feelings  prevailed.  After  all,  the  merest  cinder  of  love 
would  have  made  my  darkness  light.  I  shouldn't  have  cared  for  a 
thousand  "touching's"  then.  I  was  still  myself,  a  light-headed, 
light-hearted,  young  woman,  for  all  my  troubles  and  follies.  If  I 
had  loved  him,  the  rest  of  the  world — much  truer  and  sweeter 

3^5 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

within  than  it  looks  from  without — would  have  vanished  like  a 
puff  of  smoke.  But  not  even  love's  ashes  were  in  my  heart,  except, 
perhaps,  those  in  which  Fanny  had  scrawled  her  name. 

I  beat  about,  bruising  wings  and  breast,  hating  life,  hating  the 
friend  who  had  suddenly  slammed-to  another  door  in  my  gilded 
cage.  "You  can  never,  never  go  back  to  Wanderslore  now,"  mut- 
tered my  romantic  heart.  Friends  we  could  have  remained — only 
the  closer  for  adversity.  Now  all  that  was  over ;  and  two  human 
beings  who  might  have  been  a  refuge  and  reconciliation  to  one 
another,  amused — as  well  as  amusing — observers  of  the  world  at 
large,  had  been  by  this  one  piece  of  foolish  excess  divided  for 
ever.     I    simply    couldn't    bear   to   look    ridiculous    in   my    own 

eyes. 

My  other  letter  was  from  Sir  W.  P.  He  had  seen  the  Harrises. 
Those  foxy  tortoises  had  advanced  a  ridiculous  £i  19s.  7d.  of  my 
September  allowance — the  price  of  a  pair  of  Monnerie  bedroom 
slippers!  It  was  enclosed— and  Sir  Walter  begged  me  not  to 
worry.  Might  he  be  my  bank  ?  Would  I  be  so  kind  as  to  break  it 
as  soon  as  ever  I  wished?  Meanwhile  he  would  be  making  fur- 
ther inquires  into  my  affairs. 

Perhaps  because  Sir  W.  P.  was  a  business  man,  he  was  less  per- 
suasive with  his  pen  than  with  his  tongue.  I  thought  he  was 
merely  humouring  me,  fell  into  a  violent  rage,  and  tore  up 
not  only  his  letter,  but — noodle  that  I  was — the  Harris  Order 
too — into  the  tiniest  pieces,  and  heaped  them  up,  like  a  souffle, 
on  my  tray.  Mr  Anon's  I  locked  up  in  my  old  money-box, 
with  the  nightgown  and  the  Miss  Austen.  Both  letters  wore  like 
acid  into  my  mind.  From  that  day  on — except  for  a  few  half- 
stifled  or  excited  hours — they  were  never  out  of  remembrance. 

Even  the  most  valuable  and  expensive  pet  may  become  a 
vexation  if  it  is  continually  showing  ill-temper  and  fractious- 
ness.  Mrs  Monnerie  merely  puckered  her  lips  or  shrugged  her 
shoulders  at  my  outbursts  of  vanity  and  insolence.  But  drops 
of  water  will  wear  away  a  stone.  From  being  Court  Favourite 
I  gradually  sank  to  being  Court  Fool.  In  sheer  ennui  and 
desperation  I  waggled  my  bells  and  brandished  my  bladder. 
A  cat  may  look  at  a  Queen,  but  it  should,  I  am  sure,  make  faces 
only  at  her  Ladies-in-waiting. 
326 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Fanny  inherited  yet  another  sinecure;  and  it  was  not  envy 
on  my  side  that  helped  her  to  shine  in  it,  though  I  had  my  fits 
of  jealousy.  She  was  determined  to  please;  and  when  Fanny 
made  up  her  mind,  circumstances  seemed  just  to  fawn  at  her 
feet.  Life  became  a  continuous  game  of  chess,  the  moves  of 
which  at  times  kept  me  awake  and  brooding  in  a  far  from 
wholesome  fashion  in  my  bed.  Pawn  of  pawns,  and  one  at  the 
point  of  being  sacrificed,  I  could  only  squint  at  the  board. 
Indeed,  I  deliberately  shut  my  eyes  to  my  own  insignificance, 
strutted  about,  sulked,  sharpened  my  tongue  like  a  serpent, 
and  became  a  perfect  pest  to  myself  when  alone.  Yet  I  knew 
in  my  heart  that  those  whom  I  hoped  to  wound  merely  laughed 
at  me  behind  my  back,  that  I  was  once  more  proving  to  the 
world  that  the  smaller  one  is  the  greater  is  one's  vanity. 

In  the  midst  of  this  nightmare,  by  a  curious  coincidence  rose 
like  a  Jack-in-the-box  from  out  of  my  past  the  queerest  of 
phantoms — and  proved  himself  real. 

I  was  sullenly  stewing  in  my  thoughts  in  the  library  one 
morning  over  a  book  which  to  this  day  I  never  weary  of  reading; 
Gilbert  White's  Natural  History  of  Selborne.  It  was  the  near- 
est I  could  get  to  the  country.  The  whim  took  me  to  try  and 
become  a  little  better  acquainted  with  "William  Markwick, 
Esq.,  F.L.S.,"  who  had  himself  seen  the  sphinx  stellatarum 
inserting  its  proboscis  into  the  nectary  of  a  flower  while  "keeping 
constantly  on  the  wing."  There  seemed  to  be  something  in 
common,  just  then,  between  myself  and  the  Sphinx. 

I  pressed  my  wainscot  bell.  After  an  unusual  delay  in 
a  drastically  regulated  household,  the  door  behind  me  gentlv 
opened.  I  began  simpering  directions  over  my  shoulder  in  the. 
Percy  way  with  servants — and  presently  realized  that  all  was 
not  quite  as  it  should  be.  I  turned  to  look,  and  saw  thrust  in 
at  the  doorway  an  apparently  bodiless,  protuberant  head,  with 
black,  buttony  eyes  on  either  side  a  long,  long  nose.  Then  the 
remainder  of  this  figure  squeezed  reluctantly  in.  It  was  Adam 
Waggett. 

Guy  Fawkes  himself,  caught  lantern  in  hand  among  his  powder 
barrels,  must  have  looked  like  Adam  Waggett  at  this  moment. 
For  a  while  I  could  only  return  his  stare  from  the  midst  of 
a  vortex  of  memories.     When  at  last  I   found  my  tongue  and 

327 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

inquired  peremptorily  how  he  came  there,  and  what  he  was 
doing  in  the  house,  he  broke  into  a  long,  gurgling,  strangu- 
lated guffaw  of  laughter.  I  was  already  in  a  sour  temper — in 
spite  of  the  sweetness  of  Selborne.  As  a  boy  he  had  been  my 
acute  aversion;  and  here  he  was  a  grown  man  and  as  doltish 
and  ludicrous  as  when  he  had  roared  at  me  in  the  moonlight 
from  outside  the  kitchen  window  at  Stonecote.  His  stupidity 
and  disrespect  made  me  almost  inarticulate  with  rage. 

Maybe  the  foolish  creature,  feeling  as  strange  as  a  cat  in 
a  new  house,  was  only  expressing  his  joy  and  affection  at  sight 
of  a  familiar  face.  But  I  had  no  time  to  consider  motives. 
In  a  fever  of  apprehension  that  his  noise  might  be  overheard, 
my  one  thought  now  was  to  bring  him  to  his  senses.  I  shook 
my  fists  at  him !  and  stamped  my  foot  on  the  Turkey  carpet 
— as  if  in  snow.  He  watched  me  in  a  stupefaction  of  admiration, 
but  at  length  his  face  solemnified,  and  he  realized  that  my  angry 
gestures  were  not  intended  for  his  amusement. 

His  mouth  stood  open,  he  shook  his  head,  and,  unless  my  eyes 
deceived  me,  set  back  his  immense  ears. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  he  stuttered,  "it  was  the  sc-hock, 
and  you  inside  the  book  there,  and  the  old  times  like;  and  even 
though  they  was  telling  me  that  there  was  such  a — such  a 
young  lady  in  the  house.  .  .  .  But  I  won't  utter  a  word,  miss, 
not  me.  Only,"  he  stared  round  at  the  closed  door  and  lowered 
his  voice  to  an  even  huskier  whisper,  "except  to  tell  you  that 
Pollie's  doing  very  nicely,  and  whenever  I  sees  her — well,  miss, 
that  thunderstorm  and  the  old  cow !" 

At  this  his  features  gathered  together  for  another  outburst, 
which  I  succeeded  in  stifling  only  by  warning  him  that  so  long 
as  he  remained  at  Mrs  Monnerie's  he  must  completely  forget 
the  old  cow  and  the  thunderstorm,  and  never  address  me  in 
company,  or  even  glance  in  my  direction  if  we  happened  to  be 
together  in  the  same  room. 

"Mrs  Monnerie  would  be  extremely  angry,  Adam,  to  hear 
you  laughing  in  the  library;  and  I  am  anxious  that  you  should 
be  a  credit  to  Lyndsey  in  your  new  situation." 

"But  you   rang,   miss — at   least   the   library   did."   he   replied, 
now  thoroughly  contrite,  "and  Mr  Marvell  said,  'You  go  along, 
there,  Waggett,  second  door  right,  first  staircase,'  so  I  come." 
328 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "hut  it  was  a  mistake.  A  mistake,  you  under- 
stand.    Now  go  away  ;  and  rem<  mber  !" 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  Marvell  himself  discreetly  entered 
the  room;  merely,  as  it  would  appear,  to  adjust  the  angles 
of  a  copy  of  the  Spectator  that  lay  on  the  table. 

"It's  very  close  this  morning,"  I  remarked,  with  as  much 
dignity  as  I  could  muster. 

"It  is  indeed,  miss,"'  said  Marvell,  stooping  sedately  to  examine 
my  bell-push.     lie  rose  and  brushed  his  fingers. 

"They  say,  miss,  the  electricity  gets  into  the  wires,  when 
thunder's  in  the  air.  A  wonderful  invention,  hut  not,  as  I  am 
told,  entirely  independent  of  changes  in  the  weather.  I  hope,  miss, 
you  haven't  been  disturbed.  .  .  ." 

When  Susan,  even  paler  and  quieter  than  usual,  presently 
looked  into  the  library,  she  found  its  occupant  still  on  the 
floor  and  brooding  over  the  browns  and  greys,  the  roses  and 
ochres,  of  a  complete  congregation  of  Sphingidoe.  She  stooped 
over  me,  sprawling  in  so  ungainly  a  fashion  across  my  book. 

"Moths,  this  morning?  What  a  very  learned  person  you  will 
become."  Her  voice  was  a  little  flat,  yet  tender;  but  I  was 
still  in  the  sulks,  and  made  no  answer. 

"I  suppose,"  she  began  again,  as  if  listlessly,  and  straying 
over  to  the  window,  "I  suppose  it  is  very  pleasant  for  you,  seeing 
so  much  of  your  friend,  Miss  Bowater?" 

Caution  whispered  a  warning,  and  I  tried  to  wriggle  out 
of  an  answer  by  remarking  that  Fanny's  mother  was  the  kindest 
woman  in  the  whole  world. 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"In   Buenos  Ayres." 

"Really?  How  curious  family  traits  are.  The  very  moment 
I  saw  Miss  Bowater  I  was  quite  certain  that  she  was  intended 
for  an  adventurous  life;  and  didn't  you  say  that  her  father 
was  an  officer  in  the  merchant  service?     What  is  he  like?" 

"Mr  Bowater?     He  died — out  there,  only  a  week  or  two  ago." 

"How  very,  very  sad,"  breathed  Susan.  "And  lor  Miss 
Bowater.  I  never  even  guessed  from  her  manner  that  she  was 
in  trouble  of  that  kind.  And  that.  1  suppose,  shows  a  sort  of 
courage.     You   were  perfectly   right ;    she   is   lovely   and   clever. 

329 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

The  face  a  little  hard,  don't  you  think,  but  very  clever.  She 
seems  to  be  prepared  for  what  Aunt  Alice  is  going  to  say  long 
before  she  says  it.  And  I,  you  know,  sometimes  don't  notice 
even  the  sting  till— till  the  buzzing  is  over."  She  paused.  "And 
you  were  able  to  make  a  real  friend  of  her?" 

Susan  had  not  the  patience  to  wait  until  I  could  sort  out 
an  answer  to  this  question.  "I  don't  want  to  be  intrusive," 
she  went  on  hurriedly,  "to — to  ask  horrid  questions;  but  is  it 
true,  you  dear  thing,  that  you  may  some  day  be  leaving  us?" 

"Leaving  you?"  I  echoed,  my  thoughts  crouching  together  like 
chicks  under  a  hen. 

The  reply  came  softly  and  reluctantly  in  that  great  cistern  of  air. 

"Why,  I  understood — to  be  married." 

I  leant  heavily  on  my  hands,  seeing  not  the  plumes  an  J 
colours  of  the  Sphinxes  that  swam  up  at  me  from  the  page, 
but,  as  if  in  a  mist  between  them  and  me,  the  softly  smiling 
face  of  Fanny.  At  last  I  managed  to  overcome  the  slight 
physical  sickness  that  had  swept  over  me.  "Susan" ;  I  said, 
"if  a  friend  betrayed  the  very  soul  out  of  your  body,  what 
would  you  do?  where  would  you  go?" 

"Betray!  I,  my  dear?"  and  she  broke  into  a  confused  ex- 
planation. 

It  was  a  remark  of  Percy's  she  had  been  referring  to,  a 
silly,  trivial  remark,  not,  she  was  sure,  intended  maliciously. 
Why,  every  one  teased  every  one.  Didn't  she  know  it?  And 
especially  about  the  things  that  were  most  personal,  "and,  well, 
sacred."  It  was  nothing.  Just  that ;  and  she  should  not  have 
repeated  it. 

"Tell  me  exactly,  please,"  said  I. 

"Well,  Aunt  Alice  was  talking  of  marriage;  and  Miss  Bowater 
smiled.  And  Aunt  Alice — you  know  her  mocking  way — asked 
how,  at  her  age — Miss  Bowater's — she  had  learned  to  look  at 
the  same  time  both  charming  and  cynical.  'Don't  forget,  my 
dear,'  they  were  her  very  words,  'that  the  cynicism  wears  the 
longer.'  But  Miss  Bowater  laughed,  and  changed  the  subject 
by  asking  if  she  could  do  anything  for  your  headache.  It  was 
the  afternoon,  you  remember,  when  you  were  lying  down.  That 
was  all." 

"And  Mr  Maudlen?" 
330 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

The  fair  check  reddened.  "Oh,  Percy  made  a  joke — about 
you.  Just  one  of  his  usual  horrid  jokes.  My  dear" — she  came 
and  knelt  down  beside  me  and  laid  her  gentle  hand  on  my  shoulder ; 
"don't  look  so — so  awful.     It's  only  how  things  go." 

I  drew  the  hand  down.  It  smelled  as  fresh  and  sweet  as 
jessamine. 

"Don't  bother  about  me,  Susan,"  I  said  coldly.  "Just  leave 
me  to  my  moths.  I  could  show  you  scorpions  and  hornets  ten 
times  more  dangerous  than  a  mere  Death's  Head.  You  don't 
suppose  I  care?  Why,  as  you  say,  even  God  has  His  little 
joke  with  some  of  us.     I'm  quite  used  to  it." 

"Don't,  don't,"  she  implored  me.  "You  are  over-tired,  you 
poor  little  thing.  You  go  on  reading  and  reading.  Why,  your 
teeth  are  chattering." 

A  faint  brazen  reverberation  from  out  of  the  distance  increased 
in  intensity  and  died  away.  It  was  Adam  performing  on  the 
gong.  Susan  had  tried  to  be  kind  to  me,  to  treat  me  as  if 
I  were  a  normal  fellow-being.  I  pressed  the  cool  fing.^s  to 
my  lips. 

"There,  Susan,"  I  said,  with  cheerful  mockery,  "except  for 
my  father  and  mother,  I  do  believe  you  are  the  first  life-size 
or  any-size  person  I  have  ever  kissed.     A  midget's  gratitude !" 

Ever  so  slightly  the  fingers  constricted  beneath  my  touch. 
No  doubt  there  was  a  sensation  of  the  spidery  in  my  embrace. 


33i 


Chapter  Forty-One 


BUT  a  devil  of  defiance  had  entered  into  me.  With  a  face  a^ 
snakily  sweet  as  I  could  make  it,  I  made  my  daintiest  bow  to 
Mrs  Monnerie's  guests — to  Lord  Chiltern,  a  tall,  stiffish  man, 
who  blinked  at  our  introduction  almost  as  solemnly  and  dis- 
tastefully as  had  Mrs  Bowater's  Henry,  and  to  Lady  Diana 
Templeton.  A  glance  at  this  lady  reminded  me  spitefully  of 
an  old  suspicion  of  mine  that  Mrs  Monnerie  usually  invited  her 
duller  friends  to  luncheon  and  the  clever  to  dinner.  Not  that 
she  failed  to  enjoy  the  dull  ones,  but  it  was  in  a  different  way. 

A  long,  gilded  Queen  Anne  mirror  hung  opposite  my  high  chair, 
so  that  whenever  I  glanced  across  I  caught  sight  not  only  of  my- 
self with  cheeks  like  carnations  above  my  puffed  blue  gown,  but 
also  of  Adam  Waggett.  Ever  and  again  his  red  hand  was  thrust 
over  my  shoulder — the  hand  that  had  held  the  wren.  And  I  was 
so  sick  at  heart — on  yet  another  wren's  behalf — that  I  could 
hardly  repress  a  shudder.  Poor  Adam;  whenever  I  think  of 
him  it  is  of  a  good,  yet  weak  and  silly  man.  He  has  found  his 
Eden,  so  I  have  heard,  in  New  Zealand  now,  and  I  hope  he  has 
forgiven  my  little  share   in  his  life. 

Throughout  that  dull  luncheon  my  tongue  went  mincing  on  and 
on — in  sheer  desperation  lest  any  one  should  detect  the  state  of 
mind  I  was  in.  With  pale  eyes  Percy  sniggered  over  his  soup. 
Susan  was  silent  and  self-conscious.  Captain  Valentine  frowned 
and  nibbled  his  small  moustache.  Lady  Diana  Templeton  smiled 
like  a  mauve-pink  snapdragon,  and  Mrs  Monnerie  led  me  on.  It 
was  my  last  little  success.  Luncheon  over,  I  was  helped  down 
from  my  chair,  and  allowed  "to  run  away." 

What  was  it  Lord  Chiltern  was  saving?  I  paused  on  the 
threshold:  "An  exquisite  little  performance.  But  isn't  it  a 
little  selfish  to  hide  her  light  under  your  admirable  bushel,  Mrs 
Monnerie?     The   stage,    now?" 

"The  stage!"  exclaimed  Mrs  Monnerie  in  consternation.     "The 

332 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

child's  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  She  would  faint  at  the  very  sugges- 
tion. You  have  heard  her  deliciously  sharp  little  tongue,  but  her 
tantrums !  Still,  she's  a  friendly  and  docile  little  creature,  and  I 
am  very  well  satisfied  with  her." 

"  \nd  not  merely  that";  paced  on  the  rather  official  voice.  "I 
was  noticing  that  something  in  the  eyes.  Almost  disconcertingly 
absent  yet  penetrating.  She  thinks.  She  comes  and  goes  in  them. 
I  noticed  the  same  peculiarity  in  poor  Willie  Arhuthnot's.  And 
this  little  creature  is  scarcely  more  than  a  child." 

"I  think  it  is  perfectly  sad,  Lord  Chiltern,"  broke  in  a  reedy,  vi- 
brating voice.  "In  some  circumstances  it  would  be  tragic.  It's  a 
mercy  she  does  not  realize  .  .  .  habit,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

Listeners  seldom  hear  such  good  things  of  themselves.  Why, 
then,  was  it  so  furious  an  eaves  '  r  that  hastened  away  with 

a  face  and  gesture  worthy  of  a  Sarah  Siddons ! 

No  :  my  box  remained  locked.  Yet,  thought  I,  as  I  examined  its 
contents,  any  dexterous  finger  could  have  opened  that  tiny  lock — 
with  a  hairpin.  And  how  else  could  my  secret  have  been  dis- 
covered ?  Fleming  or  Fanny — or  both  of  them :  it  maddened  me 
to  think  of  them  in  collusion.  I  would  take  no  more  risks.  I 
tore  Mr  Anon's  letter  into  fragments,  and  these  again  into  bits  yet 
smaller,  until  they  were  almost  like  chaff.  These  I  collected  to- 
gether and  put  into  an  envelope,  which  I  addressed  in  sprawling 
capitals  to  Miss  Fanny  Bowater,  at  No.  2. 

Then  for  a  sombre  half-hour  I  communed  intensely  at  the  win- 
dow with  my  Tank.  It  was  hot  and  taciturn  company — not  a 
breath  of  air  stirred  my  silk  window-blind — yet  it  managed  to  con- 
vey a  few  home  truths,  and  even  to  increase  the  light  a  little  in 
which  I  could  look  at  the  "bushel."  There  were  "mercies,"  I 
suppose.  Out  of  the  distance  rolled  the  vagne  reverberation  of  the 
enormous  city.  I  watched  the  sparrows,  and  they  me.  When 
the  time  came  for  my  afternoon  walk,  I  put  on  my  hat,  with  eyes 
fixed  on  my  letter,  and,  finally — left  it  behind  me. 

Was  it  for  discretion's  sake,  or  in  shame?  I  cannot  say,  but  I 
remember  that  during  my  slow  descent  to  the  empty  hall  I  kept  my 
eyes  fixed  with  peculiar  malignity  on  the  milk-white  figure  of  a 
Venus  (not  life-size,  thank  Heaven),  who  had  been  surprised  ap- 
parently in  the  very  act  of  entering  the  water  for  a  bathe.  Why  I 
singled  her  out  for  contempt  I  cannot  say ;  for  she  certainly  looked 

333 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

a  good  deal  more  natural  and  modest  than  many  of  the  fine  ladies 
who  heedlessly  passed  her  by.  It  was  merely  my  old  problem  of 
the  Social  Layers  over  again.  And  my  mind  was  in  such  a  state 
of  humiliation  and  discomfort  that  I  hadn't  the  energy  even  to 
smile  at  a  marble  goddess. 

Fanny  was  awaiting  me  on  my  return.  A  strand  of  hair  was 
looped  demurely  and  old-f ashionedly  round  each  small  ear ;  her 
clear,  unpowdered  skin  had  the  faint  sheen  of  a  rose.  She  stood, 
still  and  shimmering,  in  the  height  of  pleasant  spirits,  yet,  I 
thought,  watchful  and  furtive  through  it  all.  She  had  come,  she 
said,  to  congratulate  me  on  my  "latest  conquest." 

Mrs  Monnerie,  she  told  me,  had  been  pleased  with  my  entertain- 
ment of  the  late  First  Commissioner  of — was  it  Good  Works? 
But  I  must  beware.  "Once  a  coquette,  Midgetina,  soon  quite 
heartless,"  she  twitted  me. 

To  which  I  called  sourly,  as  I  stood  drying  my  hands,  that  pretty 
compliments  must  be  judged  by  where  they  come  from. 

"Come  from,  indeed,"  laughed  Fanny.  "He's  a  positive  Peer 
of  the  Realm,  and  baths,  my  dear,  every  morning  in  the  Fount  of 
Honours.  You  wouldn't  be  so  flippant  if  .  .  .  hallo  !  what's  this  ? 
A  letter — addressed  to  Me !     Where  on  earth  did  this  come  from?" 

Heels  to  head,  a  sudden  heat  swept  over  me.  "Oh,"  said  I  hol- 
lowly, "that's  nothing,  Fanny.     Only  a  little  joke.     And  now  you 

are  here But  surely,"  I  hurried  on,  "you  don't  really  like 

that  starched-up  creature?" 

But  Fanny  was  holding  up  my  envelope  between  both  her 
thumbs  and  forefingers,  and  steadily  smiling  at  me,  over  its  margin. 
"A  joke,  Midgetina;  and  one  of  your  very  own.  How  exciting. 
And  how  bulgy.  May  I  open  it?  I  wouldn't  miss  it  for  the 
world." 

"Please,  Fanny,  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Let  me  have  it.  I 
don't  feel  like  jokes  now." 

"But  honestly,  /  do.  Some  jokes  have  such  a  deliciously  seri- 
ous side.  Besides,  as  you  have  just  come  in,  why  didn't  this  go 
out  with  you  ?"  To  which  T  replied  stubbornly  that  it  was  not  her 
letter ;  that  I  had  thought  better  of  it ;  and  that  she  had  no  right  to 
question  me  if  I  didn't  want  to  answer. 

"I  see."  Her  voice  had  glided  steadily  up  the  scale  of  suavity. 
"It's  a  bit  more  of  the  dead  past,  is  it?  And  you  don't  like  the — 
334 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

the  fragrance.  But  surely,  if  we  are  really  talking  about  rights 
— and,  according  to  my  experience,  there  arc  none  too  many  of 
them  knocking  about  in  this  world — surely  I  have  the  right  to 
ask  what  pulpy  mysteries  are  enclosed  in  an  envelope  addressed 
to  me  in  what  appears  to  be  a  feigned  ca— calligraphy?  Look. 
I  am  putting  the  thing  on  the  floor  so  that  we  shall  be  on — well 
— fairly  equal  terms.  Even  your  sensitive  Sukie  could  not  be 
more  considerate  than  that,  could  she?  All  I  want  to  know  is, 
what's  inside  that  envelope?  If  you  refuse  to  say,  well  and  good. 
I  shall  retire  to  my  maidenly  couch  and  feed  on  the  blackest 
suppositions." 

It  was  a  cul-de-sac ;  and  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  turn  back 
boldly  and  get  out  of  it. 

"Well,  Fanny ;  I  have  told  you  that  I  thought  better  of  sending 
it.  But  I  am  not  ashamed.  Even  if  I  am  wrong,  I  suppose  you 
are  at  liberty  to  have  your  little  jokes  too,  and  so  is  Percy  Maud- 
len.     It's  a  letter,  torn  up;  that's  all." 

"A  letter — so  I  guessed.     Who  from?" 

I  gazed  at  her  silently. 

"Yes?" 

"It's  hateful  of  you,  Fanny.  .  .  .     From  the  hunchback." 

Her  astonishment,  surely,  could  not  have  been  pretence.  "And 
what  the  devil,  you  dear,  stammering  little  midgelet,  has  your  mis- 
erable little  hunchback  to  do  with  me?  Why  send  his  scrawls  to 
me — and  in  bits?" 

"Because,"  said  I,  "I  thought  you  had  been  making  fun  of  him 
and  me  to — the  others." 

The  light  hands  lifted  themselves;  the  dark  head  tilted  a  little 
back  and  askew.  "What  a  roundabout  route,"  she  sighed.  But 
her  face  was  false  to  the  smooth,  scornful  accents.  "So  you  sus- 
pected me  of  spying  on  you?  /  see.  And  gentle  Susan  Monnerie 
was  kind  enough  to  smear  a  little  poison  on  the  fangs.  Well, 
Midgetina  love,  I  tell  you  this.  It's  safer  sometimes  to  lose  your 
reputation  than  your  temper.     But  there's  a  limit " 

"Hush,"  I  whispered,  for  I  had  sharper  ears  than  Fanny  even 
when  ra»e  had  not  deafened  her  own.  I  pounced  on  the  envelope 
— but  only  just  in  time. 

"It's  Mr  Percy,  miss,"  announced  Fleming,  "and  may  he  come 
in?" 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Hallo !"  said  that  young  man,  lounging  greyly  into  view,  "a  bad 
penny,  Miss  M.  I  happened  to  be  passing  Buszard's  just  now,  and 
there  was  the  very  thing!  Miss  Bowater  says  you  have  a  sweet 
tooth,  and  they  really  are  rather  neat."  He  had  brought  me  the 
daintiest  little  box  of  French  doll  bonbons.  I  glared  at  it;  I 
glared  at  him— hardly  in  the  mood  for  any  more  of  his  little  jokes 
— not  even  one  tied  up  with  pale-blue  ribbon. 

"There's  another  thing,"  he  went  on.  "Susan  told  us  that  your 
birthday  was  coming  along — August  25th,  isn't  it?  And  I  have 
proposed  a  Grand  Birthday  Party,  sort  of  general  rag.  Miss  M. 
in  the  Chair.  Don't  you  think  it's  a  ripping  idea  of  mine,  Miss 
Bowater?" 

"Most  ripping,"  said  Fanny,  meeting  his  long,  slow,  sneaking 
glance  with  a  slight  and  seemingly  involuntary  lift  of  her  narrow 
shoulder.  A  long  look  I  could  not  share  passed  between  them; 
I  might  have  been  a  toy  on  the  floor. 

"But  you  don't  look  positively  in  the  pink,"  he  turned  to  me. 
"Now,  does  she?  Late  hours,  eh?  You  look  crumpled,  doesn't 
she?  Cherry,  too:  we  must  have  in  another  Vet."  The  laugh 
died  on  his  long  lips.  His  eyes  roved  stealthily  from  point  to  point 
of  the  basking  afternoon  room,  then  once  more  sluggishly  refast- 
ened  on  Fanny.  I  sat  motionless,  watching  his  every  turn  and 
twist,  and  repeating  rapidly  to  myself,  "Go  away,  my  friend ;  go 
away,  go  away."  Some  nerve  in  him  must  have  taken  the  mes- 
sage at  last,  or  he  found  Fanny's  silence  uneasy.  He  squinnied 
a  glinting,  curious  look  at  me,  and  as  jauntily  as  self -conscious- 
ness permitted,  took  his  departure. 

The  door  shut.  His  presence  fainted  out  into  a  phantasm,  and 
that  into  nothing  at  all.  And  for  sole  evidence  of  him  basked  on 
my  table,  beneath  a  thread  of  sunlight,  his  blue-ribboned  box. 

"Isn't  he  a  ninny  ?"  sighed  Fanny.  "And  yet,  my  dear :  there— 
but  for  the  grace  of  God — goes  Mr  Fanny  Bowater." 

Her  anger  had  evaporated.  There  stood  my  familiar  Fanny 
again,  slim  as  a  mast,  her  light  eyes  coldly  shining,  her  bearing, 
even  the  set  of  her  foot  showing  already  a  faint  gilding  of  Mrs 
Monnerie.  She  laughed—  looking  straight  across  at  me,  as  if  with 
a  challenge. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  it's  quite  true.  I'm  not  a  bit  cross  now.  Milk 
and  Honey.  So  you  sec  even  a  fool  may  be  a  lightning  conduc- 
tor. I  forgive,"  she  pouted  a  kiss  from  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  "I 
forget." 

336 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

And  then  she  was  gone  too,  and  I  alone.  What  an  easy,  con- 
soling thing — not  to  care.  But  though  Fanny  might  forgive,  she 
must  have  found  it  unamusing  to  forget.  The  next  evening's  post 
brought  me  an  exquisitely  written  little  fable,  signed  "F.  B.,"  and 
entitled  Asteroida  and  the  Yellow  Dwarf.  I  couldn'1  enjoy  it 
very  much  ;  though  no  doubt  it  must  have  been  exceedingly  enter- 
taining when  read  aloud. 

Still  Fanny  did  not  care.  While  T  myself  was  like  tho  e  railway 
lines  under  the  green  bank  I  had  seen  on  my  journey  to  Lyme 
Regis.  A  day's  neglect,  a  night's  dews,  and  I  was  stained  thick 
with  rust.  A  dull  and  heedless  wretchedness  took  possession  of 
me.  The  one  thought  that  kept  recurring  in  every  instant  of  sol- 
itude, and  most  sharply  in  those  instants  which  pounced  on  me  in 
the  midst  of  strangers,  was,  how  to  escape. 

I  put  away  the  envelope  and  its  contents  into  my  box  a^ain. 
And  late  that  night,  when  I  was  secure  from  interruption.  T  wrote 
to  Wanderslore.  Nibbling  a  pen  is  no  novelty  to  me.  but  never  in 
all  my  life  have  I  spent  so  blank  and  hideous  an  hour  merely  in  the 
effort  to  say  No  to  one  simple  question  so  that  it  should  sound 
almost  as  pleasant  as  Yes.  and  far  more  unselfish.  "Throw  the 
stone,"  indeed  ;  when  my  only  desire  was  to  heal  the  wound  it  might 
make. 

Thank  goodness  my  letter  was  kinder  than  I  felt.  My  cande- 
labra burned  stilly  on.  Cold,  in  the  blues,  T  stood  in  my  dressing- 
gown  and  spectacling  my  eyes  with  mv  hands,  looked  out  of  the 
chill  o-lass  into  the  London  night.  Onlv  one  high  garret  window 
shone  out  in  the  dark  face  of  the  houses.  .  .  .  Who,  where,  was 
Willie  Arbuthnot  with  the  peculiar  eyes?  Had  Lord  Chiltern  a 
tank  on  his  roof — his  back-yard  ?  What  a  fool  T  had  been  to  aban- 
don myself  and  come  here.  If  they  only  knew  how  T  despised 
them.  And  the  whole  house  a^leeo.  So  much  T  despised  them 
that  not  until  T  was  dressing  (he  following  morning  did  I  stoop 
inlo  my  Indian  mirror  to  see  if  I  could  discover  what  Lord 
Chiltern  had  meant. 

During  the  next  few  weeks  Airs  Monnerie — with  ample  provo- 
cation— almost  yawned  at  sight  of  me.  Tn  a  bitter  instant  of  re- 
bellion our  eyes  met.  She  detected  the  "ill-wish"  in  mine,  and  was 
so  much  taken  aback  by  it  that  T  should  hardly  have  recognized  the 
set  face  that  glared  at  me  as  hers  at  nil.       Well,  the  fancier  had 

337 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

wearied  of  her  fancy — that  was  all.  If  I  had  been  just  an  ordi- 
nary visitor,  she  would  soon  have  washed  her  hands  of  me.  But 
I  was  notorious,  and  not  so  easily  exchanged  as  bronchitic 
Cherry  had  been  for  her  new  Pekinese,  Plum. 

Possibly,  too,  the  kind  of  aversion  she  now  felt  against  me  was 
a  closer  bond  than  even  virtuosity  or  affection.  She  would  sit  with 
a  sullen  stare  under  her  heavy  eyelids  watching  me  grow  more  and 
more  heated  and  clumsy  over  my  scrap  of  embroidery  or  my  game 
of  Patience.  Meanwhile  Chakka  would  crack  his  nut,  and  with 
stagnant  eye  sidle  thievishly  up  and  down  the  bars  of  his  cage; 
while  Plum  gobbled  up  dainties  or  snored  on  his  crimson  cushion. 
We  three. 

Usually  I  was  left  pretty  much  alone ;  and  what  plans  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie  was  turning  over  to  dispose  of  me  were  known  only  to  her- 
self. What  to  do;  where  to  hide;  how  to  "make  myself  small" 
during  those  torpid  August  days,  I  hardly  knew.  My  one  desire 
was  to  keep  out  of  sight.  One  afternoon,  I  remember,  after  brood- 
ing for  some  hours  under  a  djusty  lilac  bush  in  the  Square  garden, 
I  strayed  off — my  eyes  idly  glancing  from  straw  to  hairpin  to  dead 
match  in  the  dust — down  a  narrow  deserted  side  street  that  led  to 
a  Mews.  A  string  of  washing  hung  in  the  sunlight  from  the  win- 
dows. Skirting  a  small  public  house,  from  which  the  smell  of  beer 
and  spirits  vapoured  into  the  sunshine,  I  presently  found  myself  in 
a  black-green  churchyard  among  tombstones. 

A  clear  shadow  slanted  across  the  porch,  the  door  of  the  church 
stood  open,  and  after  pausing  for  a  moment  on  its  flagstones,  T 
went  in.  It  was  empty.  Stone  faces  gazed  sightlessly  from  its 
walls.  Two  red  sanctuary  lamps  hung  like  faint  rubies  in  the 
distant  chancel.  I  dragged  out  a  cushion  and  sat  down  under 
the  font.  The  thin,  cloudy  fragrance  that  hung  in  the  gloom  of 
the  coloured  windows  stole  in  through  my  nostrils,  drugged  my 
senses.  Propping  my  chin  on  my  hands,  I  looked  up  through  the 
air  into  the  dark  roof.  A  pendulum  ticked  slowly  from  on  high. 
Quiet  began  to  steal  over  me — long  centuries  of  solitude  had  filled 
this  vacancy  as  with  a  dream. 

It  was  as  if  some  self  within  me  were  listening  to  the  unknown — 
but  to  whom  ?  I  could  not  answer  ;  I  might  as  well  have  been  born 
a  pagan.  Was  this  church  merely  the  house  of  a  God?  There 
were  gods  and  temples  all  over  the  world.  Was  it  a  house  of  the 
338 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

God  ?  Or  only  of  "their"  God  ?  In  a  sense  I  knew  it  was  also  my 
God's,  but  how  much  more  happily  confident  of  His  secret  presence 
I  had  been  in  wild-grown  Wanderslore.  Did  this  mean  that  I  was 
actually  so  much  alone  in  my  world  as  to  be  different  from  all  other 
human  beings  ? 

A  fluttering  panic  swept  through  my  mind  at  the  muffled  thump- 
ing of  the  invisible  pendulum.  I  had  forgotten  that  time  never 
ceased  to  be  wasting.  And  the  past  stretched  its  panorama  be- 
fore my  eyes :  No.  2 :  the  public  house  with  the  solitary  thinking 
man  I  had  seen,  pot  in  hand,  staring  into  the  sawdust ;  and  this 
empty,  cavernous  silence.  Then  back  and  back — Lyme  Regis,  Mrs 
Bowater's — and  Fanny,  Lyndsey,  my  mother  and  father,  the  gar- 
den. No  sylphs  of  the  air,  no  trancing  music  out  of  the  waters 
now!  It  was  as  if  the  past  were  surrounded  with  a  great  wall; 
and  the  future  clear  and  hard  as  glass.  You  might  explore  the 
past  in  memory :  you  couldn't  scale  its  invisible  walls. 

And  there  was  Mr  Crimble — an  immeasurable  distance  away; 
yet  he  had  still  the  strange  power  to  arrest  me,  to  look  out  on  me 
in  my  path.  Must  the  future  be  all  of  its  piece  ?  I  stopped  think- 
ing again,  and  my  eyes  wandered  over  my  silk  skirt  and  shoes. 

My  ghost!  there  was  no  doubt  I  was  an  exceedingly  small  hu- 
man being.  It  may  sound  absurd,  but  I  had  never  vividly 
realized  it  before.  And  howr  solemnly  sitting  there — like  a  spider 
in  wait  for  flies.  "For  goodness'  sake,  Miss  M.,"  I  said  to  my- 
self, "cheer  up.  You  are  being  deadly  dull  company — always 
half  afraid.  They  daren't  really  do  anything  to  you,  you  know. 
Face  it  out."  And  even  while  I  was  muttering,  I  was  reading 
the  words  cut  into  a  worn  tombstone  at  my  feet :  "Jenetta  Parker" 
— only  two-and-twenty,  a  year  older  than  I.  Yet  she  had  lain 
here  for  two  whole  centuries  and  more.  And  beneath  her  name 
I  spelled  out  her  epitaph : — 

"Ah,  Stranger,  breathe  a  sigh : 
For,  where  I  lie, 
Is   but   a   handful    of  bright    Beauty   cast : 
It  was;  and  now  is  past." 

I  repeated  the  wTords  mechanically  again  and  again;  and,  as  if 
in  obedience  to  her  whisper,  a  much  more  niggardly  handful  of 
none  too  bright  a  beauty  did  breathe  a  sigh  and  a  prayer — part  pity, 
part   melancholy,    and    all    happiness   and    relief.     I    kissed   my 

339 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

hand  to  Jenetta;  crossed  myself  and  bowed  to  the  altar — dulled 
gems  of  light  the  glass — and  emerged  into  the  graveyard.  A  lamp 
had  been  lit.  An  old  man  was  shuffling  along  behind  me;  he 
had  come  to  lock  up  the  church.  For  an  instant  I  debated  whether 
or  not  to  scuttle  off  down  the  green-bladed  cobbles  of  the  Mews 
and — trust  my  luck.  No :  the  sight  of  a  Punch  and  Judy  man 
gobbling  some  food  out  of  a  newspaper  at  the  further  corner 
scared  me  out  of  that  little  enterprise.  Dusk  was  settling ;  and 
I  edged  back  as  fast  as  I  could  to  No.  2. 

But  it  did  me  good — that  visit.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  look- 
ing back  and  up  at  my  own  small  skull  on  a  high  shelf  in  some 
tranquil  and  dingy  old  laboratory — a  few  bottles,  a  spider's  web, 
and  an  occasional  glint  of  moonlight.  How  very  brief  the 
animation  for  so  protracted  a  peace. 


340 


Chapter  Forty-Two 


SUSAN'S  visits  to  her  aunt  were  now  less  frequent.  Percy's 
multiplied.  Duty  seemed  to  have  become  a  pleasure  to  him. 
Mrs  Monnerie's  gaze  would  rest  on  him  with  a  drowsy  vigi- 
lance which  it  was  almost  impossible  to  distinguish  from  mere 
vacancy  of  mind.  He  was  fortunate  in  being  her  only  nephew ; 
unfortunate  in  being  himself,  and  the  son  of  a  sister  to  whom 
Mrs  Monnerie  seemed  very  little  attached.  Still,  he  appeared  to 
be  doing  his  best  to  cultivate  his  aunt's  graces,  would  meander 
"in  attendance"  round  and  round  the  Square's  square  garden, 
while  Fanny's  arm  had  now  almost  supplanted  Mrs  Monnerie's 
ebony  cane.  When  Mrs  Monnerie  was  too  much  fatigued  for 
this  mild  exercise,  or  otherwise  engaged,  there  was  still  my 
health  to  consider.  At  least  Fanny  seemed  to  think  so.  But 
since  Percy's  conversation  had  small  attractions  for  me,  it  was 
far  rather  he  who  enjoyed  the  experience;  while  I  sat  and 
stared  at  nothing  under  a  tree. 

At  less  than  nothing — for  I  was  staring,  as  usual,  chiefly  at 
myself.  I  seemed  to  have  lost  the  secret  of  day-dreaming. 
And  if  the  quantity  of  aversion  that  looked  out  of  my  eyes 
had  matched  its  quality,  those  piebald  plane-trees  and  poisonous 
laburnums  would  have  been  scorched  as  if  with  fire.  I  shall 
never  forget  those  interminable  August  days,  besieged  by  the 
roar  and  glare  and  soot  and  splendour  and  stare  of  London. 
All  but  friendless,  absolutely  penniless,  I  had  nothing  but  bits 
of  clothes  for  bribes  to  keep  Fleming  from  mutiny.  I  shrank 
from  making  her  an  open  enemy;  though  I  knew,  as  time  went 
on,  that  she  disrelished  me  more  and  more.  She  would  even 
keep  her  nose  averted  from  my  clothes. 

As  for  Fanny,  to  judge  from  her  animation  when  Susan 
and  Captain  Valentine  broke  in  upon  us,  I  doubt  if  anybody 
less  complacent  than  Percy  would  not  have  realized  that  she 
was  often  bored.     She  would   look  at  him  with   head   on   one 

341 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

side,  as  if  she  had  been  painted  like  that  for  ever  and  ever  in 
a  picture.  She  could  idly  hide  behind  her  beauty,  and  Percy 
might  as  well  have  gone  hunting  Echo  or  a  rainbow.  She  could 
make  corrosive  remarks  in  so  seducing  a  voice  that  the  poor 
creature  hardly  knew  where  the  smart  came  from.  He  would 
exclaim,  "Oh,  I  say,  Miss  Bowater !"  and  gape  like  a  goldfish. 
Solely,  perhaps,  to  have  some  one  to  discuss  herself  with,  Fanny 
so  far  forgave  and  forgot  my  shortcomings  as  to  pay  me  an 
occasional  visit,  and  had  yawned  how  hideously  expensive  she 
found  it  to  live  with  the  rich.  But  the  only  promise  of  help 
I  could  make  was  beyond  any  possibility  of  performance.  I 
promised,  none  the  less,  for  my  one  dread  was  that  she  should 
guess  what  straits  I  was  in   for  money. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  accuse  Percy  Maudlen  of  goldfishiness. 
What  kind  of  fish  was  I  ?  During  the  few  months  of  my  life 
at  Mrs  Monnerie's — until,  that  is,  Fanny's  arrival — she  had 
transported  her  "Queen  Bee,"  as  she  sometimes  called  me,  to 
every  conceivable  social  function  and  ceremony,  except  a  death- 
bed and  a  funeral.  Why  had  I  not  played  my  cards  a  little 
more  skilfully?  Had  not  Messrs  de  la  Rue  designed  a  pack 
as  if  expressly  for  me,  and  for  my  own  particular  little  game 
of  Patience?  If  perhaps  I  had  shown  more  sense  and  less  sensi- 
bility ;  and  had  not  been,  as  I  suppose,  in  spite  of  all  my  airs  and 
flauntings,  such  an  inward  young  woman,  what  altitudes  I  might 
have  scaled.  Mrs  Monnerie,  indeed,  had  once  made  me  a  promise 
to  present  me  at  Court  in  the  coming  May.  It  is  true  that  this 
was  a  distinction  that  had  been  enjoyed  by  many  of  my  prede- 
cessors in  my  own  particular  "line" — but  I  don't  think  my 
patroness  would  have  dished  me  up  in  a  Pie. 

That  being  so,  my  proud  bosom  might  at  this  very  moment 
be  heaving  beneath  a  locket  adorned  with  the  royal  monogram  in 
seed  pearls,  and  inscribed,  "To  the  Least  of  her  Subjects  from 
the  Greatest  of  Queens."  Why,  I  might  have  been  the  most 
talked-of  and  photographed  debutante  of  the  season.  But  I 
must  beware  of  sour  grapes.  "There  was  once  a  Diogenes  whom 
the  gods  shut  up  in  a  tub." —  Poor  Mr  Wagginhorne,  he  had 
been,  after  all,  comparatively  frugal  with  his  azaleas. 

In  all  seriousness  I  profited  far  too  little  by  Mrs  Monnerie's 
generosities,  by  my  "chances,"  while  I  was  with  her.  I  just 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

grew  hostile,  and  so  half-blind.  Many  of  her  friends,  of  course, 
were  merely  wealthy  or  fashionable,  but  others  were  just  natural 
human  beings.  As  Fanny  had  discovered,  she  not  only  de- 
lighted in  people  that  were  pleasant  to  look  at.  She  enjoyed 
also  what,  I  suppose,  is  almost  as  rare,  intelligence. 

The  society  "Beauties,"  now?  To  be  quite  candid,  and  I 
hope  without  the  least  tinge  of  jealousy,  I  think  they  liked  the 
look  of  me — well,  no  better  than  I  liked  the  look  of  excessively 
handsome  men.  These  exotics  of  either  sex  reminded  me  of 
petunias — the  headachy  kind,  that  are  neither  red  nor  blue, 
but  a  mixture.  I  always  felt  when  I  looked  at  them  that  they 
knew  they  were  making  me  dizzy.  Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  could  hardly  see  their  beauty  for  their  clothes.  It  must,  of 
course,  be  extremely  difficult  to  endure  pure  admiration.  True, 
I  never  remember  even  the  most  tactful  person  examining  me 
for  the  first  time  without  showing  some  little  symptom  of  dis- 
composure.    But  that's  a  very  different  thing. 

There  was,  however,  another  kind  of  beauty  which  I  loved 
with  all  my  heart.  It  is  difficult  to  express  what  I  mean,  but 
to  see  a  woman  whose  face  seemed  to  be  the  picture  of  a  dream 
of  herself,  or  a  man  whose  face  was  absolutely  the  showing  of 
his  own  mind — I  never  wearied  of  that.  Or,  at  any  rate,  I 
do  not  now ;  in  looking  back. 

So  much  for  outsides.  Humanity,  our  old  cook,  Mrs  Ballard, 
used  to  say,  is  very  like  a  veal  and  ham  pie :  its  least  digestible 
part  is  usually  the  crust.  I  am  only  an  amateur  veal  and  ham 
Pieist;  and  the  fact  remains  that  I  experienced  just  as  much 
difficulty  with  what  are  called  "clever"  people.  They  were  like 
Adam  Waggett  in  his  Sunday  clothes — a  little  too  much  of 
something  to  be  quite  all  there.  I  firmly  believe  that  what  one 
means  is  the  best  thing  to  say,  and  the  very  last  thing,  however 
unaffected,  most  of  these  clever  people  said  was  seemingly  what 
they  meant.  Their  conversation  rarely  had  more  than  an  in- 
tellectual interest.  You  asked  for  a  penny,  and  they  gave  you 
what  only  looked  like  a  threepenny  bit. 

Perhaps  this  is  nothing  but  prejudice,  but  I  have  certainly 
always  got  on  very  much  better  with  stupid  people.  Chiefly, 
perhaps,  because  I  could  share  experiences  with  them ;  and 
the  latest  thoughts  did  not  matter  so  much.     Clever  men's — and 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

women's — experiences  all  seem  to  be  in  their  heads ;  and  when 
I  have  seen  a  rich  man  clamber  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  as 
poor  Mr  Crimble  used  to  say,  I  shall  keep  my  eyes  open  for  a 
clever  one  attempting  the  same  feat.  It  had  been  one  of  my 
absurd  little  amusements  at  Mrs  Bowater's  to  imagine  myself 
in  strange  places — keeping  company  with  a  dishevelled  Comet 
in  the  cold  wilds  of  space,  or  walking  about  in  the  furnaces 
of  the  Sun,  like  Shadrach  and  Abednego.  Not  so  now.  Yet 
if  I  had  had  the  patience,  and  the  far  better  sense,  to  fix  my 
attention  on  any  one  I  disliked  at  Mrs  Monnerie's  so  as  to  enter 
in;  no  doubt  I  should  so  much  have  enlarged  my  inward  self 
as  to  make  it  a  match  at  last  even  for  poor  Mr  Daniel  Lambert. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  sometimes  met  people  at  No.  2,  or 
when  I  was  taken  out  by  Mrs  Monnerie,  whose  faces  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  on  an  almost  unbelievably  long  journey— 
and  one  not  merely  through  this  world,  though  that  helps.  I 
did  try  to  explore  those  eyes,  and  mouths,  and  wrinkles;  and 
solitudes,  stranger  than  any  comet's,  I  would  find  myself  in  at 
times.  Alas,  they  paid  me  extremely  little  attention;  though 
I  wonder  they  did  not  see  in  my  eyes  how  hungry  I  was  for  it. 
They  were  as  mysterious  as  what  is  called  genius.  And  what 
would  I  not  give  to  have  set  eyes  on  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  or  Nelson, 
or  John  Keats — all  three  of  them  comparatively  little  men. 

However  absurdly  pranked  up  with  conceit  I  might  be,  I 
knew  in  my  heart  that  outwardly,  at  any  rate,  I  was  nothing 
much  better  than  a  curio.  To  care  for  me  was  therefore  a 
really  difficult  feat.  And  apart  from  there  being  very  little 
time  for  anything  at  Mrs  Monnerie's,  I  never  caught  any  one 
making  the  attempt.  When  the  novelty  of  me  had  worn  off, 
I  used  to  amuse  myself  by  listening  to  Mrs  Monnerie's  friends 
talking  to  one  another — discussing  plays  and  pictures  and  music 
and  so  on — anything  that  was  new,  and,  of  course,  each  other. 
Often  on  these  occasions  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  was  on 
my  head  or  my  heels. 

Books  had  always  been  to  me  just  a  part  of  my  life;  and 
music  very  nearly  my  death.  However  much  I  forgot  of  it, 
I  wove  what  I  could  remember  of  my  small  reading  round  myself, 
so  to  speak;  and  I  am  sure  it  made  the  cocoon  more  comfort- 
able. As  often  as  not  these  talkers  argued  about  books  as  if 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

their  authors  had  made  them — certainly  not  "out  of  their  power 
and  love" — but  merely  for  their  readers  to  pick  to  pieces;  and 
about  "beauty,"  too,  as  if  it  were  something  you  could  eat 
with  a  spoon.  As  for  poetry,  one  might  have  guessed  from 
what  they  said  that  it  meant  no  more  than — well,  its  "meaning." 
As  if  a  butterfly  were  a  chrysalis.  I  have  sometimes  all  but 
laughed  out.  It  was  so  contrary  to  my  own  little  old-fashioned 
notions.     Certainly  it  was  not  my  mother's  way. 

But  there,  what  presumption  this  all  is.  I  had  never  been 
to  school,  never  been  out  of  Kent,  had  never  "done"  anything, 
nor  "been"  anything,  except — and  that  half-heartedly — myself. 
No  wonder  I  was  censorious. 

If  I  could  have  foreseen  how  interminably  difficult  a  task  it 
would  prove  to  tack  these  memoirs  together,  1  am  sure  I  should 
have  profited  a  little  more  by  the  roarings  of  my  fellow  lions. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  used  merely  to  watch  them  sipping 
their  tea,  and  devouring  their  cake  amid  a  languishing  circle  of 
admirers,  and  to  wonder  if  they  found  the  cage  as  tedious  as  I  did. 
If  they  noticed  me  at  all,  they  were  usually  polite  enough; 
but — like  the  Beauties — inclined  to  be  absent  and  restless  in  my 
company.  So  the  odds  were  against  me.  I  had  one  advantage 
over  them,  however,  for  when  I  was  no  longer  a  novelty,  I  could 
occasionally  slip  in,  unperceived,  behind  an  immense  marquetry 
bureau.  There  in  the  dust  I  could  sit  at  peace,  comparing  its 
back  with  its  front,  and  could  enjoy  at  leisure  the  conversation 
beyond. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  one  old  gentleman,  with  whom  I  really 
made  friends.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  was  not  only  the  author 
of  numbers  of  books,  but  when  he  was  a  little  boy  had  been 
presented  by  Charles  Dickens  himself  with  a  copy  of  David 
( 'opperfield,  and  had  actually  sat  on  the  young  novelist's  knee. 
No  matter  who  it  was  he  might  be  talking  to,  he  used  to  snap  his 
fingers  at  me  in  the  most  exciting  fashion  whenever  we  saw  each 
other  in  the  distance,  and  we  often  shared  a  quiet  little  talk 
together  (I  standing  on  a  highish  chair,  perhaps,  and  he  squatting 
beside  me,  his  hands  on  his  knees)  in  some  corner  of  Mrs 
Monnerie's  enormous  drawing-room,  well  out  of  the  mob. 

I  once  ventured  to  ask  him  how  to  write. 

His   face  grew  very  solemn.     "Lord  have  mercy  upon  me," 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

he  said,  "to  write,  my  dear  young  lady.  Well,  there  is  only  one 
recipe  I  have  ever  heard  of :  Take  a  quart  or  more  of  life-blood; 
mix  it  with  a  bottle  of  ink,  and  a  teaspoonful  of  tears;  and  ask 
God  to  forgive  the  blots."  Then  he  laughed  at  me,  and  polished 
his  eyeglasses  with  his  silk  pocket  handkerchief. 

I  surveyed  this  grisly  mixture  without  flinching,  and  laughed 
too,  and  said,  tapping  his  arm  with  my  fan:  "But,  dear  Mr 
,  would  you  have  me  die  of  anaemia?" 

And  he  said  I  was  a  dear,  valuable  creature,  and,  when  next 
"Black  Pudding  Day"  tempted  us,  we  would  collaborate. 

Having  heard  his  views,  I  was  tempted  to  push  on,  and  in- 
quired as  flatteringly  as  possible  of  a  young  portrait  painter 
how  he  mixed  his  paints:  "So  as  to  get  exactly  the  colours 
you  want,  you  know?" 

He  gently  rubbed  one  long-fingered  hand  over  the  other  until 
there  fell  a  lull  in  the  conversation  around  us.  "What  I  mix 
my  paints  with,  Miss  M.  ?  Why — merely  with  brains,"  he  replied. 
My  old  novelist  had  forgotten  the  brains.  But  I  discovered  in 
some  book  or  other  long  afterwards  that  a  still  more  celebrated 
artist  had  said  that  too ;  so  I  suppose  the  mot  is  traditional. 

And  last,  how  to  "act":  for  some  mysterious  reason  I  never 
asked  any  theatrical  celebrity,  male  or  female,  how  to  do  that? 

More  or  less  intelligent  questions,  I  am  afraid,  are  not  the 
only  short-cut  to  good,  or  even  to  polite,  conversation.  And 
I  was  such  a  dunce  that  I  never  really  learned  what  topics  are 
respectable,  and  what  not.  In  consequence,  I  often  amused  Mrs 
Monnerie's  friends  without  knowing  why.  They  would  exchange 
a  kind  of  little  ogling  glance,  or  with  a  silvery  peal  of  laughter 
like  bells,  cry,  "How  naive !" 

How  I  detested  the  word.  Naive — it  was  simply  my  ill- 
bred  earnestness.  Still,  I  made  one  valuable  discovery:  that 
you  could  safely  laugh  or  even  titter  at  things  which  it  was 
extremely  bad  manners  to  be  serious  about.  What  you  could 
be  serious  about,  without  letting  skeletons  out  of  the  cupboard 
— that  was  the  riddle.  I  had  been  brought  up  too  privately 
ever  to  be  able  to  answer  it. 

How  engrossing  it  all  would  have  been  if  only  the  Harrises 
could  have  trebled  my  income,  and  if  Fanny  had  not  known  me 
so  well.  There  was  even  a  joy  in  the  ladies  who  shook  their 
346 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

lorgnettes  at  me  as  if  I  were  deaf,  or  looked  at  me  with  their 
noses,  as  one  might  say,  as  if   I  were  a  bad  or  i  airy  joke. 

On  my  part,  I  could  never  succeed  in  forgetting  that,  in  spite 
of  appearances,  they  must  be  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  therefore 
the  prey  of  them,  and  of  the  World,  and  the  Devil.  So  I  used  to 
amuse  myself  by  imagining  how  they  would  look  in  their  bones, 
or  in  rags,  or  in  heaven,  or  as  when  they  were  children.  Or 
again,  by  an  effort  of  fancy  I  would  reduce  them,  clothes  and 
all,  lo  my  proportions;  or  even  a  little  less.  And  though  these 
little  inward  exercises  made  me  absent-minded,  it  made  them 
ever  so  much  more  interesting  and  entertaining. 

How  I  managed  not  to  expire  in  what,  for  a  country  mouse, 
was  extremely  like  living  in  a  bottle  of  champagne,  I  don't 
know.  And  if  my  silly  little  preferences  suggest  cynicism — 
well,  I  may  be  smug  enough,  but  I  don't,  and  won't,  believe  I 
am  a  cynic.  Remember  I  was  young.  Besides  I  love  human 
beings,  especially  when  they  are  very  human,  and  I  have  even 
tried  to  forgive  Miss  M.  her  Miss  M-ishness.  How  can  I  be  a 
cynic  if  I  have  tried  to  do  that?  It  is  a  far  more  difficult  task 
than  to  make  allowances  for  the  poor,  wretched,  immortal  wax- 
work creatures  in  Madame  Tussaud's  Chamber  of  Horrors,  or 
even  for  the  gentleman  naturalist  who  shot  and  stuffed  Kent's 
last  golden  oriole. 

Nor  have  I  ever,  for  more  than  a  moment,  shared  with 
Lemuel  Gulliver  his  none  too  nice  disgust  at  the  people  of 
Brobdingnag,  even  at  kind-hearted  Glumdalclitch.  Am  I  not  my- 
self— not  one  of  the  quarrelsome  "Fair  Folks  of  the  Woods" 
— but  a  Yahoo?  Gulliver,  of  course,  was  purposely  made  unac- 
customed to  the  gigantic ;  while  I  was  born  and  bred,  though 
not  to  such  an  extreme,  in  its  midst.  And  habit  is  second  nature, 
or,  as  an  old  Lyndsey  proverb  goes,  "There's  nowt  like  eels  for 
eeliness." 

I  am,  none  the  less,  ever  so  thankful  that  neither  my  ears, 
nose,  nor  eyes,  positively  magnify,  so  to  speak.  I  may  be  a 
little  more  sensitive  to  noises  and  smells  than  some  people  are, 
but  that  again  is  probably  only  because  I  was  brought  up  so 
fresh  and  quiet  and  privately.  I  am  far  more  backward  than 
can  be  excused,  and  in  some  things  abominably  slow-witted. 
Whether  or  not  my  feelings  are  pretty  much  of  the  usual  size. 

347 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  cannot  say.  What  is  more  to  the  point  is  that  in  some  of 
my  happiest  moments  my  inward  self  seems  to  be  as  remote 
from  my  body  as  the  Moon  is  from  Greenland;  and,  at  others, 
— even  though  that  body  weighs  me  down  to  the  earth  like 
a  stone — it  is  as  if  memory  and  consciousness  stretched  away 
into  the  ages,  far,  far  beyond  my  green  and  dwindling  Barrow 
on  Chizzel  Hill,  and  had  shaken  to  the  solitary  night-cry  of 
Creation,  "Let  there  be  Light." 

But  enough   and   to   spare   of   all   this   egotism.     I   must   get 
back  to  my  story. 


348 


Chapter  Forty-Three 


THE  fact  is,  Miss  M.'s  connection  with  good  society  was 
rapidly  drawing  to  a  close.  My  smoky  little  candle  had 
long  since  begun  to  gutter  and  sputter  and  enwreathe  itself 
in  a  winding  sheet.  It  went  out  at  last  in  a  blaze  of  light.  For 
once  in  his  life  Percy  had  conceived  a  notion  of  which  his  aunt 
cordially  approved — my  Birthday  Banquet.  Heart  and  soul,  all 
my  follies  and  misdemeanours  forgotten,  she  entered  into  this  new 
device  to  give  her  Snippety,  her  Moppet,  her  Pitsskinetta,  her 
little  Binbin,  her  fairy,  her  Pelite  Sereine,  an  exquisite  setting. 

Invitations  were  sent  out  to  the  elect  on  inch-square  cards 
embossed  with  my  family  crest  and  motto — a  giant,  head  and 
shoulders,  brandishing  a  club,  and  Non  Omnis  Moriar.1  She 
not  only  postponed  her  annual  departure  from  town,  but,  as 
did  the  great  man  in  the  parable,  compelled  her  friends  to  come 
in.  She  exhausted  her  ingenuity  on  the  menu.  The  great, 
on  this  occasion,  were  to  feast  on  the  tiny.  A  copy  of  it  lies 
beside  me  now,  though,  unfortunately,  I  did  not  examine  it 
when  I  sat  down  to  dinner.  Last,  but  not  least,  Percy's  pastry- 
cooks, Messrs  Buszard,  designed  a  seven-tiered  birthday-cake, 
surrounded  on  its  lowermost  plateau  by  one-and-twenty  sugar- 
figures,  about  a  quarter  life-size,  and  each  of  them  bearing 
on  high  a  silver  torch. 

Their  names  were  inscribed  on  their  sugar  pediments:  Lady 
Morgan  (the  Windsor  Fairy)  ;  Queen  Elizabeth's  Mrs  Tomysen; 
the  Empress  Julia's  Andromeda;  the  great  little,  little  great  Miss 
Billing  of  Tilbury;  Anne  Rouse  and  poor  Ann  Colling;  the 
Sicilian  Mile  Caroline  Crachami  (who  went  to  the  anatomists)  ; 
Nannette  Stocker  (33  inches.  33  lbs.  avoirdupois  at  33)  ;  the 
blessed  and  tender  Anastasia  Boruwlaski ;  Gaganini ;  the  gentle 

1  To  be  truthful,  this  is  not  my  family  motto  (nor  crest)  ;  but  the  real 
motto  seemed  a  little  too  satirical  to  share  with  Mrs  Monnerie ;  and  how- 
ever overweening  its  substitute  may  appear,  I  have  now  hopes,  and  now 
misgivings,  that  it  is  true. 

349 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Miss  Selby  of  Bath;  Alethea  (the  Guernsey  Nymph);  Madame 
Teresa  (the  Corsican  Fairy)  ;  Mrs  Jeykll  Skinner;  the  appalling 
Nono;  Mrs  Anne  Gibson  (nee  Shepherd)  ;  and  the  rest. 

It  was  a  joke,  none  the  worse,  maybe,  for  being  old;  and 
Peter  the  Great  must  have  turned  in  his  grave  in  envy  of  Mrs 
Monnerie's   ingenuity. 

It  may  scarcely  be  believed,  but  I  had  become  so  hardened 
to  such  little  waggeries  that  under  the  genial  eye  of  Mrs  Monnerie 
I  made  the  circuit  of  this  cake  with  a  smile;  and  even  scolded 
ber  for  omitting  the  redoubtable  Mrs  Bellamy  with  her  life-size 
family  of  nine.  I  criticized  the  images  too,  as  not  to  be  com- 
pared, even  as  sugar,  with  the  alabaster  William  of  Windsor 
and  Blanche,  in  the  Tower. 

The  truth  is,  when  real  revulsions  of  body  and  soul  come, 
they  come  in  a  gush,  all  at  once.  Fleming,  on  the  Night,  was 
actually  putting  the  last  touches  to  my  coiffure  when  suddenly, 
with  a  wicked  curse,  I  turned  from  the  great  glass  and  announced 
my  decision.  Tiny  tortoiseshell  comb  uplifted,  she  stood  in  the 
clear  lustrousness  looking  in  at  my  reflection,  queer  thoughts 
darting  about  in  her  eyes.  At  first  she  supposed  it  was  but  an- 
other fit  of  petulance.  Then  her  hatred  and  disgust  of  me  all 
but  overcame  her. 

She  quietly  argued.  I  insisted.  But  she  was  mortally  afraid 
of  Mrs  Monnerie,  and  rather  than  deliver  my  message  to  her, 
sought  out  Susan.  Poor  Susan.  She,  too,  was  afraid:  and 
it  was  her  face  rather  than  her  love  that  won  me  over  at  last. 
Then  she  had  to  rush  away  to  make  what  excuse  she  could 
for  my  unpunctuality.  It  thus  came  about  that  Mrs  Monnerie's 
guests  had  already  sat  down  to  table,  and  were  one  and  all  being 
extremely  amused  by  some  story  she  was  entertaining  them  with, 
when  Marvell  threw  open  the  great  mahogany  doors  for  me,  and  I 
made  my  solitary  entry. 

In  primrose  silk,  a  la  Pompadour,  a  wreath  of  tight-shut 
pimpernels  in  my  hair — it  is  just  possible  that  Mrs  Monnerie 
suspected  I  had  chosen  to  come  in  late  like  this  merely  for 
effect.  But  that  would  have  been  an  even  feebler  exhibition  of 
vanity  than  /  was  capable  of.  All  her  guests  were  known  to  me, 
even  though  only  one  of  them  was  of  my  choosing;  for  Mrs 
Bowater  was  in  the  Argentine,  Sir  Walter  in  France,  Miss 
35o 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Fenne  on  her  deathbed,  Mr  Pellew  in  retreat,  and  Mr  Crimble 
in  his  grave.     Fanny  was  my  all. 

She  was  sitting  four  or  five  chairs  away  from  me  on  my 
left,  between  Percy  (who  had  on  his  right  hand  a  beautiful 
long- faced  girl  in  turquoise  green)  and  Captain  Valentine. 
Further  down,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  sat  Lady 
Maudlen — a  seal-like  lady,  who,  according  to  Fanny,  disapproved 
of  me  on  religious  grounds — while  I  was  on  Mrs  Monnerie's 
left,  and  next  to  Lord  Chiltern.  Alas,  even  my  old  friend  the 
"Black  Pudding"  was  too  far  distant  to  do  more  than  twinkle 
"Courage !"  at  me,  when  our  eyes  met. 

Recollections  of  that  disastrous  evening  are  clouded.  So  evil 
with  dreams  my  nights  had  been  that  I  hardly  knew  whether  I 
was  awake  or  asleep.  But  I  recall  the  long  perspective  of  the 
table,  the  beards,  the  busts,  the  pearls,  the  camellias  and  gardenias, 
the  cornucopias,  and  that  glistening  Folly  Castle,  my  Birthday 
Cake.  Marvell  is  behind  me,  and  Adam  Waggett  is  ducketing  in 
the  luminous  distance.  The  clatter  of  many  tongues  beats  on  my 
ear.  Mrs  Monnerie  murmurs  and  gently  rocks.  The  great  silver 
dishes  dip  and  withdraw.  Corks  pop,  and  the  fumes  of  meat 
and  wine  cloud  into  the  air.  In  memory  it  is  as  if  I  myself  were 
far  away,  as  if  I  had  read  of  the  scene  in  a  book. 

But  two  moments  stand  vividly  out  of  its  unreality — and 
each  of  them  to  my  shame.  A  small,  wreathed,  silver-gilt  dish 
was  placed  before  me.  Automatically  I  thrust  my  spoon  into  its 
jelly,  and  pecked  at  the  flavourless  morsels.  Sheer  nervousness 
had  deprived  me  of  my  sense  of  taste.  But  there  was  something 
in  Mrs  Monnerie's  sly  silence,  and  Lord  Chiltern's  solemn  monocle, 
and    I  '(.Toy's  snigger,  that  set  me  speculating. 

"Angelic  Tomtitiska !"  sighed  Mrs  Monnerie,  "I  wager  when 
she  returns  to  Paradise,  she  will  sit  in  a  corner  and  forget  to 
tune  her  harp." 

There  was  no  shade  of  vexation  in  her  voice,  only  amiable 
amusement;  but  those  sitting  near  had  overheard  her  little 
pleasantry,  and  smilingly  watched  me  as,  casting  my  eye  down 
the  menu — Consomme  aux  Nids  d'Hirondcllcs,  Filets  de  Blaneli- 
ailles  a  la  Diable,  AUes  de  Caille  aux  petits  pois  Minnie  Stratton, 
Sauterelles  aux  Caroubes  Saint  Jean,  it  was  caught  at  last  by 
a  pretty  gilt  flourishing  around  the  words,  Supreme  de  Langues 

351 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

de  Rossignols.  This,  then,  was  the  dainty  jest,  the  clou  du  re  pas. 
The  faint  gold  words  shimmered  back  at  me.  In  an  instant  I 
was  a  child  again  at  Lyndsey,  lulling  to  sleep  on  my  pillow  amid 
the  echoing  songs  of  the  nightingales  that  used  to  nest  in  its 
pleasant  lanes.  I  sat  flaming,  my  tongue  clotted  with  disgust. 
I  simply  couldn't  swallow ;  and  didn't.     But  never  mind. 

This  was  my  first  mishap.  Though  her  own  appetite  was 
capricious,  ranging  from  an  almost  incredible  voracity  to  a  scrap 
of  dry  toast,  nothing  vexed  Mrs  Monnerie  so  much  as  to  see 
my  poor,  squeamish  stomach  revolting  at  the  sight  of  meat. 
She  drew  up  a  naked  shoulder  against  me,  and  the  feast  pro- 
ceeded with  its  chief  guest  in  the  shade.  Once  I  could  soon  have 
regained  my  composure.  Now  I  languished,  careless  even  of 
the  expression  on  my  face.  Not  even  the  little  mincing  smile 
Fanny  always  reserved  for  me  in  company  could  restore  me, 
and  it  was  at  her  whisper  that  Percy  stole  down  and  filled  my 
acorn  glass  with  a  translucent  green  liquid  which  he  had  himself 
secured  from  the  sideboard.  I  watched  the  slow,  green  flow 
of  it  from  the  lip  of  the  decanter  without  a  thought  in  my 
head.  Lord  Chiltern  endeavoured  to  restore  my  drooping  spirits. 
I  had  outrageously  misjudged  him.  He  was  not  one  of  Mrs 
Monnerie's  stupid  friends,  and  he  really  did  his  utmost  to  be 
kind  to  me.  If  he  should  ever  read  these  words,  may  he  be 
sure  that  Miss  M.  is  grateful.  But  his  kindness  fell  on  stony 
ground.  And  when,  at  length,  he  rose  to  propose  my  health, 
I  crouched  beneath  him  shameful,  haggard,  and  woebegone. 

It  was  as  minute  a  speech  as  was  she  whom  it  flattered,  and 
far  more  graceful.  Nothing,  of  course,  would  satisfy  its  audience 
when  the  toast  had  been  honoured,  but  that  Miss  M.  should 
reply.  One  single,  desperate  glance  I  cast  at  Mrs  Monnerie. 
She  sat  immovable  as  the  Sphinx.  There  was  no  help  for  it. 
Knees  knocking  together,  utterly  tongue-tied,  I  stood  up  in 
my  chair,  and  surveyed  the  two  converging  rows  of  smiling, 
curious  faces.  Despair  gave  me  counsel.  I  stooped,  raised  my 
glass,  and  half  in  dread,  half  in  bravado,  tossed  down  its  burning 
contents  at  a  gulp. 

The  green  syrup  coursed  along  vein  and  artery  like  molten  lead. 
A  horrifying  transparency  began  to  spread  over  my  mind.  It 
352 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

seemed  it  had  become  in  that  instant  empty  and  radiant  as  a  dome 
of  glass.  All  sounds  hushed  away.  Things  near  faded  into  an  in- 
finite distance.  Every  face,  glossed  with  light  as  if  varnished,  be- 
came lifeless,  brutal,  and  inhuman,  the  grotesque  caricature  of  a 
shadowy  countenance  that  hung  somewhere  remote  in  memory,  yet 
was  invisible  and  irrevocable.  In  this  dead  moment — the  whole 
blazing  scene  like  a  nowhere  of  the  imagination — my  wandering 
eyes  met  Fanny's.  She  was  softly  languishing  up  at  Captain  Val- 
entine, her  ringers  toying  with  a  rose.  And  it  seemed  as  though 
her  once  loved  spirit  cried  homelessly  out  at  me  from  space,  as  if 
for  refuge  and  recognition  ;  and  a  long-hidden  flood  broke  bounds 
in  my  heart.  All  else  forgotten,  and  obeying  mechanically  the 
force  of  long  habit,  I  stepped  up  from  my  chair  on  to  the  table,  and 
staggered  towards  her,  upsetting,  as  I  went,  a  shallow  glass  of  bub- 
bling wine.     It  reeked  up  in  the  air  around  me. 

"Fanny,  Fanny,"  I  called  to  her  out  of  my  swoon,  "Ah,  Fanny. 
Holy  Dying,  Holy  Dying!  Sauz'e  qui  petit!"  With  empty, 
shocking  face,  she  started  back,  appalled,  like  a  wounded  snake. 

"Oh !"  she  cried  in  horror  into  the  sleep  that  was  now  mounting 
my  body  like  a  cloud,  "oh !"  Her  hand  swept  out  blindly  in  my 
direction  as  if  to  fend  me  off.  At  best  my  balance  was  insecure; 
and  though  the  velvet  petals  of  her  rose  scarcely  grazed  my  cheek, 
the  insane  glaze  of  my  mind  was  already  darkening,  I  toppled  and 
fell  in  a  heap  beside  her  plate. 


353 


Monk's  House 


Chapter  Forty-Four 


THUS  then  I  came  of  age,  though  not  on  St  Rosa's  day. 
However  dramatic  and  memorable,  I  grant  it  was  not  a 
courteous  method  of  acknowledging  Lord  Chiltern's  cour- 
tesy. In  the  good  old  days  the  drunken  dwarf  would  have  been 
jovially  tossed  from  hand  to  hand.  From  mind  to  mind  was  my 
much  milder  penalty.  And  yet  this  poor  little  contretemps  was 
of  a  sort  that  required  "hushing  up" ;  so  it  kept  tongues  wagging 
for  many  a  day.  It  was  little  comfort  that  Percy  shared  my  dis- 
grace, and  even  Susan,  for  "giving  way." 

She  it  was  who  had  lifted  my  body  from  the  table  and  carried 
it  up  into  darkness  and  quiet.  In  the  half  light  of  my  bedroom  I 
remember  I  opened  my  eyes  for  a  moment — eyes  which  refused  to 
stay  still  in  their  sockets,  but  were  yet  capable  of  noticing  that  the 
left  hand  which  clasped  mine  had  lost  its  ring.  I  tried  to  point  it 
out  to  her.     She  was  crying. 

Philippina  sober  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  the  fingers 
of  Mrs  Monnerie  herself.  She  must  have  withdrawn  the  kindly 
sheet  from  my  face,  and,  with  nightmare  still  babbling  on  my  lips, 
I  looked  up  into  the  familiar  features,  a  little  grey  and  anxious, 
but  creased  up  into  every  appearance  of  goodwill. 

"Not  so  excessively  unwisely,  then,"  she  rallied  me,  "and  only 
the  least  little  thought  too  well.  We  have  been  quite  anxious  about 
Bebe,  haven't  we,  Fleming?" 

"Quite,  madam.     A  little  indigestion,  that's  all." 

"Yes,  yes ;  a  little  indigestion,  that's  all,"  Mrs  Monnerie  agreed  : 
"and  I  am  sure  Poppet  doesn't  want  those  tiresome  doctors  with 
their  horrid  physic." 

I  sat  up,  blinking  from  one  to  the  other.  "I  think  it  was  the 
green  stuff,"  I  muttered,  tongue  and  throat  as  dry  as  paper.  I 
could  scarcely  see  out  of  my  eyes  for  the  racking  stabs  of  pain  be- 
neath my  skull. 

"Yes,  yes,"  was  the  soothing  response.  "But  you  mustn't  agi- 
tate yourself,  silly  child.     Don't  open  your  eyes  like  that.     The 

357 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

heat  of  the  room,  the  excitement,  some  little  obstinate  dainty. 
Now,  one  of  those  darling  little  pills,  and  a  cooling  draught,  per- 
haps.    Thank  you,  Fleming." 

The  door  closed,  we  were  left  alone.  Mrs  Monnerie's  scru- 
tiny drifted  away.  Their  shutters  all  but  closed  down  on  the 
black-brown  pupils.  My  head  pined  for  its  pillows,  my  shoulders 
for  some  vestige  of  defence,  but  pined  in  vain.  For  the  first  time 
I  felt  afraid  of  Mrs  Monnerie.  She  was  thinking  so  densely  and 
heavily. 

Yet,  as  if  out  of  a  cloud  of  pure  absentmindedness,  dropped 
softly  her  next  remark.  "Does  pretty  Pusskin  remember  what 
she  said  to  Miss  Bowatcr?  .  .  .  No?  .  .  .  Well,  then,  if  she 
can't,  it's  quite  certain  nobody  else  can — or  wishes  to.  I  inquired 
merely  because  the  poor  thing,  who  has  been  really  nobly  devot- 
ing herself  to  her  duties,  seems  so  hurt.  Well,  it  shall  be  a  little 
lesson — to  us  all.  Though  one  swallow  does  not  make  a  sum- 
mer, my  child,  one  hornet  can  make  things  extremely  unpleasant. 
Not  that  I "  A  vast  shrug  of  the  shoulders  completed  the  sen- 
tence. "A  little  talk  and  tact  will  soon  set  that  right;  and  I  am 
perfectly  satisfied,  perfectly  satisfied  with  things  as  they  are.  So 
that's  settled.  Some  day  you  must  tell  me  a  little  more  about 
your  family  history.  Meanwhile,  rest  and  quiet.  No  more 
excitement,  no  more  company,  and  no  more" — she  bent  low  over 
me  with  wagging  head — "no  more  green  stuff.  And  then" — her 
eyes  rested  on  me  with  a  peculiar  zest  rather  than  with  any  actual 
animosity — "then  we  must  see  what  can  be  done  for  you." 

There  came  a  tap — and  Percy  showed  in  the  doorway. 

"I  thought,  Aunt  Alice,  I  thought "  he  began,  but  at  sight  of 

the  morose,  heavy  countenance  lifted  up  to  him,  he  shut  his  mouth. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie,  "thank  you,  Sir  Galahad; 
you  did  nothing  of  the  kind." 

Whereupon  her  nephew  wheeled  himself  out  of  the  room  so 
swiftly  that  I  could  not  detect  what  kind  of  exotics  he  was 
carrying  in  a  little  posy  in  his  hand. 

So  the  invalid,  now  a  burden  on  the  mind  of  her  caretaker 
many  times  her  own  weight,  was  exiled  for  ever  from  No.  2. 
Poor  Fleming,  sniffier  and  more  disgusted  than  ever,  was  deputed 
to  carry  me  off  to  the  smaller  of  Mrs  Monnerie's  country  re- 
treats, a  long,  low-roofed,  shallow-staired  house  lying  in  the 
358 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

green  under  the  downs  at  Croomham.  There  I  was  to  vegetate 
for  a  time  and  repent  of  my  sins. 

Percy's  fiery  syrup  took  longer  to  withdraw  its  sweet  in- 
fluences than  might  have  been  foreseen.  Indeed,  whenever  I 
think  of  him,  its  effects  are  faintly  renewed,  though  not,  I  trust, 
to  the  detriment  of  my  style!  None  too  strong  physically,  the 
Miss  M.  that  sat  up  at  her  latticed  window  at  Monk's  House 
during  those  few  last  interminable  August  days,  was  very  busy 
with  her  thoughts.  As  she  looked  down  for  hours  together  on 
the  gnarled,  thick-leafed  old  mulberry-tree  in  the  corner  of  the 
lawn  that  swept  up  to  the  very  stones  of  the  house,  and  on  the 
walled,  sun-drugged  garden  beyond,  she  was  for  ever  debating 
that  old,  old  problem;  what  could  be  done  by  herself  zvith  herself? 

The  doves  crooned;  the  cawing  rooks  flapped  black  into  the 
blue  above  the  neighbouring  woods ;  the  earth  drowsed  on. 
It  was  a  scene  of  peace  and  decay.  But  I  seemed  to  have  lost 
the  charm  that  could  have  made  it  mine.  I  was  an  Ishmael. 
And  worse — I  was  still  a  prisoner.  No  criminal  at  death's 
door  can  have  brooded  more  laboriously  on  his  chances  of  es- 
cape.    No  wonder  the  voices  of  childhood  had  whispered,  Away ! 

There  came  a  long  night  of  rain.  I  lay  listening  to  the 
whisper  and  clucking  of  its  waters.  Far  away  the  lapwings 
called :  Ee-ooeet !  Ee-ooeet !  What  follies  I  had  been  guilty 
of.  How  wilily  circumstance  had  connived  at  them.  Yet  I 
was  no  true  penitent.  My  heart  was  empty,  so  parched  up 
that  neither  love  nor  remorse  had  any  place  in  it.  Revenge 
seemed  far  sweeter.  Driven  into  this  corner,  I  sent  a  desperate 
word  to  Sir  W.  It  remained  unanswered,  and  this  friend  fol- 
lowed the  rest  into  the  wilderness  of  my  ingratitude. 

But  that  brought  me  no  relief.  For  of  all  the  sins  I  have 
ever  committed,  envy  and  hatred  seem  to  me  the  most  un- 
pleasant to  practise.  I  was  to  learn  also  that  "he  who  sows 
hatred  shall  gather  rue,"  and  "bed  with  thistles."  With  eyes  at 
last  as  anxious  as  Jezebel's,  I  resumed  my  watch  at  the  window. 
But  even  if  Percy  had  ridden  from  London  solelv  to  order 
Fleming  to  throw  me  down,  she  would  not  have  "demeaned" 
herself  to  set  hands  on  me.  She  might  be  bold,  but  she,  too, 
was  fastidious. 

Then    Fleming   herself    one   afternoon    softly    and    suddenly 

359 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

vanished  away — on  her  summer's  holiday.  Poor  thing;  so  acute 
was  the  chronic  indigestion  caused  by  her  obstinate  little  dainty 
that  she  did  not  even  bid  me  good-bye. 

She  left  me  in  charge  of  the  housekeeper,  Mrs  French,  a 
stout,  flushed,  horse-faced  woman,  who  now  and  then  came  in 
and  bawled  good-humouredly  at  me  as  if  I  were  deaf,  but  other- 
wise ignored  me  altogether.  I  now  spent  most  of  my  time  in 
the  garden,  listlessly  wandering  out  of  sight  of  the  windows 
(and  gardeners),  along  its  lank-flowered,  rose-petalled  walks, 
hating  its  beauty.  Or  I  would  sit  where  I  could  hear  the  water- 
drops  in  a  well.  The  very  thought  of  company  was  detestable. 
I  sat  there  half-dead,  without  book  or  needle,  with  scarcely  a 
thought  in  my  head.  In  my  library  days  at  No.  2  I  had  become 
a  perfect  slave  to  pleasures  of  the  intellect.  But  now  dyspepsia 
had  set  in  there  too. 

My  nights  were  pestered  with  dreams  and  my  days  with 
their  vanishing  spectres;  and  I  had  no  Pollie  to  tell  me  what 
they  forecast.  I  suppose  one  must  be  more  miserable  and  hunted 
in  mind  even  than  I  was,  never  to  be  a  little  sentimental  when 
alone.  I  would  lean  over  the  cold  mouth  of  the  well,  just  able 
to  discern  in  the  cold  mirror  of  water,  far  beneath,  the  face 
I  was  almost  astonished  to  find  reflected  there.  "Shall  I  come 
too?"  I  would  morbidly  whisper,  and  dart  away. 

Still,  just  as  with  a  weed  in  winter,  life  was  beginning  to 
renew  the  sap  within  me ;  and  Monk's  House  was  not  only 
drowsy  with  age  but  gentle  with  whispers.  Once  at  least  in 
every  twenty-four  hours  I  would  make  a  pilgrimage  to  its  wrought- 
iron  gates  beside  the  square  white  lodge,  to  gloat  out  between 
the  metal  floriations  at  the  dusty  country  lane  beyond — with 
its  swallows  and  wagtails  and  dragon-flies  beneath  the  heat- 
parched  tranquil  elms.  A  slim,  stilted  greyhound  on  one  such 
visit  stalked  out  from  the  lodge.  Quite  unaware  of  his  com- 
pany, I  [turned  about  suddenly  and  stared  clean  down,  his 
arched  throat — white  teeth  and  lolling  tongue.  It  was  as  if 
I  had  glanced  into  the  jaws  of  destiny.  He  turned  his  head, 
whiningly  yawned,  and  stalked  back  into  the  shade. 

A  day  or  two  afterwards  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
lodge-keeper's  daughter,  a  child  named  Rose,  about  five  years 
of  age,  with  a  mop  of  copper-coloured  curls  bound  up  with  a 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pale  blue  bow.  At  first  glimpse  of  me  she  had  hopped  back  as  if 
on  springs  into  the  house.  A  moment  after,  her  white-aproned 
mother  appeared  in  the  porch,  and  with  a  pleasant  nod  at  me 
bade  the  child  smile  at  the  pretty  little  lady.  Finger  in  mouth, 
Rose  wriggled  and  stared.  In  a  few  days  she  grew  accustomed 
to  my  small  figure.  And  though  I  would  sometimes  discover  her 
saucer-blue  eyes  fixed  on  me  with  a  peculiar  intensity,  we  almost 
came  to  be  friends.  She  was  not  a  very  bright  little  girl ;  yet  I 
found  myself  wooing  her  with  all  the  arts  I  knew — in  a  scarcely 
conscious  attempt,  I  suppose,  to  creep  back  by  this  small  lane 
into  the  world's  and  my  own  esteem. 

I  made  her  wristlets  of  little  flowers,  hacked  her  out  cockle 
boats  from  the  acorns,  told  her  half-forgotten  stories,  and  once 
had  to  trespass  into  the  kitchen  at  the  back  of  the  lodge  to  tell 
her  mother  that  she  was  fallen  asleep.  Was  it  mere  fancy  that 
read  in  the  scared  face  she  twisted  round  on  the  pretty  little 
lady  from  over  her  saucepan,  "Avaunt,  Evil  Eye !"  ?  I  had 
become  abominably  self-conscious. 


361 


Chapter  Forty-Five 


ONE  such  afternoon  Rose  and  I  were  sitting  quietly  together  in 
the  sunshine  on  the  green  grass  bank  when  a  smart,  short 
step  sounded  in  the  lane,  and  who  should  come  springily 
pacing  out  of  the  country  through  the  gates  but  Adam  Waggett — 
red  hands,  black  boots,  and  Londonish  billycock  hat  all  complete. 
Adam  must  have  been  born  in  a  fit  of  astonishment;  and  when 
he  dies,  so  he  will  enter  Paradise.  He  halted  abruptly,  a  ring 
of  shifting  sunshine  through  the  leaves  playing  on  his  purple 
face,  and,  after  one  long  glance  of  theatrical  astonishment,  he 
burst  into  his   familiar  guffaw. 

This  time  the  roar  of  him  in  the  open  air  was  nothing  but  a 
pleasure,  and  the  mere  sound  and  sight  of  him  set  Rose  off 
laughing,  too.  Her  pink  mouth  was  as  clustered  about  with 
milk-teeth  as  a  fragment  of  honeycomb  is  with  cells. 

"Well,  there  I  never,  miss,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  slow, 
friendly  wink  at  the  child,  "Where  shall  us  three  meet  again, 
I  wonder."  He  flicked  the  dust  off  his  black  button  boots  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief,  mopped  his  high,  bald  forehead,  and 
then  positively  exploded  into  fragments  of  information — like 
my  father's  fireworks  on  Guy  Fawkes'   Day. 

He  talked  of  young  Mr  Percy's  "goings-on,"  of  the  august 
Mr  Marvell,  of  life  at  No.  2.  "That  Miss  Bowater,  now,  she's 
a  bit  of  all  right,  she's  toffee,  she  is."  But,  his  hat!  there  had 
been  a  row.  And  the  captain,  too.  Not  that  there  was  anything 
in  that;  "just  a  bit  of  silly  jealousy;  like  the  women!"  He 
could  make  a  better  guess  than  that.  He  didn't  know  what 
"the  old  lady"  would  do  without  that  Miss  Bowater — the  old 
lady  whose  carriage  would  in  a  few  days  be  rolling  in  between 
these  very  gates.     And  then — he  began  whistling  a  Highland  Reel. 

The  country  air  had  evidently  got  into  his  head.  Hand  over 
hand  he  was  swarming  up  the  ladder  of  success.  His  "joie  de 
vvure"  gleamed  at  every  pore.  And  I? — I  just  sat  there,  pas- 
sively drinking  in  this  kitchen-talk,  without  attempting  to  stop 
362 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

him.  After  all,  he  was  out  of  my  past ;  we  were  children  of 
Israel  in  a  strange  land;  and  that  hot  face,  with  its  violent 
pantomime,  and  hair-plastered  temples,  was  as  good  as  a  play. 

He  was  once  more  settling  his  hat  on  his  head  and  opening 
his  mouth  in  preparation  for  a  last  bray  of  farewell,  when 
suddenly  in  the  sunny  afternoon  hush  a  peculiar,  melancholy, 
whining  cry  rose  over  the  treetops,  and  slowly  stilled  away. 
As  if  shot  from  a  how,  Rose's  greyhound  leapt  out  of  the  lodge 
and  was  gone.  With  head  twisted  over  his  shoulder,  Adam 
stood  listening.  Somewhere — where?  when? — that  sound  had 
stirred  the  shadows  of  my  imagination.  The  day  seemed  to 
gather  itself  about  me,  as  if  in  a  plot. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  I  heard  the  dust-muffled  grinding 
of  heavy  wheels  approaching,  and  the  low,  refreshing  talk  of 
homely,  Kentish,  country  voices.  Adam  stepped  to  the  gate. 
I  clutched  Rose's  soft,  cool  fingers.  And  spongily,  ponderously, 
there,  beyond  the  bars,  debouched  into  view  a  huge-shouldered, 
mole-coloured  elephant,  its  trunk  sagging  towards  the  dust,  its 
small,  lash-fringed  eye  gleaming  in  the  sun,  its  bald,  stumpy, 
tufted  tail   stiff  and  still   behind   it. 

On  and  on,  one  after  another,  in  the  elm-shaded  beams  of 
the  first  of  evening,  the  outlandish  animals,  the  wheeled  dens, 
the  gaudy,  piled-up  vans  of  pasteboard  scenery,  the  horses  and 
ponies  and  riff-raff  of  a  travelling  circus  wound  into,  and  out 
of,  view  before  my  eyes.  It  was  as  if  the  lane  itself  were  mov- 
ing, and  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  with  Rose  and  myself  clutched 
hand  in  hand  on  our  green  bank,  had  remained  stark  still. 
Probably  the  staring  child  supposed  that  this  was  one  of  my 
fairy-tales  come  true.  My  own  mind  was  humming  with  a 
thought  far  more  fantastic.  Ever  and  again  a  swarthy  face 
had  glanced  in  on  our  quiet  garden.  The  lion  had  glared  into 
Africa  beyond  my  head.  But  I  was  partly  screened  from  view 
by  Rose,  and  it  was  a  woman,  and  she  all  but  the  last  of  the 
dusty,  bedraggled  company,  that  alone  caught  a  full,  clear  sight 
of  me. 

One  flash  of  eye  to  eye — we  knew  each  other.  She  was  the 
bird-eyed,  ear-ringed  gipsy  of  my  railway  journey  with  Pollie 
from  Lyndsey  to  Beechwood.  Even  more  hawklike,  bonier,  strid- 
ing along  now  like  a  man   in   the  dust  and  heat  in  her  dingy 

363 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

coloured  petticoats  and  great  boots,  with  one  steel-grey  dart 
of  remembrance,  she  swallowed  me  up,  like  flame  a  moth.  Her 
mouth  relaxed  into  a  foxy  smile  while  her  gaze  tightened  on 
me.  She  turned  herself  about  and  shrilled  out  a  strange  word 
or  two  to  some  one  who  had  gone  before.  A  sudden  alarm 
leapt  up  in  me.  In  an  instant  I  had  whisked  into  hiding,  and 
found  myself,  half-suffocated  with  excitement,  peeping  out  of 
a  bush  in  watch  for  what  was  to  happen  next. 

So  swift  had  been  my  disappearance  she  seemed  doubtful 
of  her  own  senses.  A  cage  of  leopards,  with  a  fair-skinned, 
gold-haired  girl  in  white  stockings  lolling  asleep  on  the  chained- 
up  tail-board,  trundled  by;  and  then  my  gipsy  was  joined  by 
a  thick-set,  scowling  man.  His  face  was  bold  and  square,  and 
far  more  lowering  than  that  of  the  famous  pugilist,  Mr  Savers — 
to  whose  coloured  portrait  I  had  become  almost  romantically 
attached  in  the  library  at  No.  2.  This  dangerous-looking  in- 
dividual filled  me  with  a  tremulous  excitement  and  admiration. 
If,  as  in  a  dream,  my  past  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  for  that 
solitary  elephant;  then  my  future  was  all  of  a  simmer  with  him. 

He  drew  his  thick  hand  out  of  his  stomach-pocket  and  scratched 
his  cheek.  The  afternoon  hung  so  quiet  that  I  heard  the  rasp 
of  his  finger  nail  against  his  sprouting  beard.  He  turned  to 
mutter  a  sullen  word  or  two  at  the  woman  beside  him.  Then, 
more  civilly,  and  with  a  jerk  of  his  squat  thumb  in  my  direction, 
he  addressed  himself  to  Adam.  Adam  listened,  his  red  ears 
erect  on  either  side  of  his  hat.  But  his  only  answer  was  so 
violent  a  wag  of  his  head  that  it  seemed  in  danger  of  toppling  off 
his  body.  Softly  I  laughed  to  myself.  The  woman  yelped  at 
him.  The  man  bade  her  ferociously  "shut  her  gob."  Adam 
clanged-to  the  gates.  They  moved  on.  Beast,  cage,  and  men 
were  vanished  like  a  daydream.  A  fitful  breeze  rustled  the 
dry  elm-leaves.     The  swifts  coursed  on  in  the  shade. 

When  the  last  faint  murmur  had  died  away,  I  came  out  from 
behind  my  bush.  "A  country  circus,"  I  remarked  unconcernedly. 
"What  did  the  man  want,  Adam?" 

"That  hairy  cat  frowned  at  Rosie,"  whispered  the  child,  turn- 
ing from  me  to  catch  at  Adam's  coat-tails.     "Not  eat  Rosie?" 

Adam  bent  himself  double,  and  with  an  almost  motherly  tender- 
364 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

ness  stroked  her  bright  red  hair.  He  straightened  himself  up, 
spat  modestly  in  the  dust,  and,  with  face  still  mottled  by  our 
recent  experience,  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  man  was  "one 
of  them  low  blackguards — excusing  plain  English,  miss — who'd 
steal  your  chickens  out  of  the  very  saucepan."  As  for  the  woman 
— words   failed  him. 

I  waited  until  his  small,  round  eye  had  rolled  back  in  my 
direction.  "Yes,  Adam,"  I  said,  "but  what  did  he  say?  You 
mean  she  told  him  about  me?" 

"Well,  miss,  to  speak  equal-like,  that  was  about  the  size  of  it. 
The  old  liar  said  she  had  seen  you  before,  that  you  were — well, 
there  you  are! — a  gold  mine,  a — a  blessed  gold  mine.  Her  very 
words  nearabout."  At  that,  in  an  ins,uppressible  gush  of 
happiness  I  laughed  out  with  him,  like  a  flageolet  in  a  concourse 
of  bassoons. 

"But  he  didn't  see  me,  Adam.     I  took  good  care  of  that." 

"That's  just,"  said  Adam,  with  a  tug  at  his  black  cravat, 
"what's  going  to  give  the  pair  of  them  a  mighty  unpleasant 
afternoon." 

I  dismissed  him,  smiled  at  the  whimpering  greyhound,  smiled 
at  Rose,  whose  shyness  at  me  had  unaccountably  whelmed  over 
her  again,  and  followed  in  Adam's  wake  towards  the  house. 
Rut  not  to  enter  it.  "A  blessed" — oh,  most  blessed  "Gold  Mine!" 
The  word  so  sang  in  me  that  the  whole  garden — espaliered  wall, 
and  bird,  and  flower — leapt  into  life  and  beauty  before  my 
eyes.  Then  my  prayer  {what  prayer?)  had  been  answered.  I 
squared  my  shoulders,  shuddered — a  Lazarus  come  to  life.  Away 
I  went,  and  seating  myself  in  a  sunny  corner,  a  few  paces  from  a 
hive  of  bees,  plucked  a  nectarine,  and  surrendered  myself  to 
the  intoxication  of  an  idea.  Not  "Your  Master  is  dead,"  but 
"Your  mistress  is  come  to  life  again!"  I  whispered  to  the  bees. 
And  if  I  had  been  wearing  a  scarlet  garter  I  would  have  tied 
it  round  their  skep. 

Money!  Money! — a  few  even  of  my  handfuls  of  that,  and  I 
was  free.  I  would  teach  "them"  a  lesson.  I  would  redeem 
myself.  Ah,  if  only  I  had  had  a  fraction  of  Fanny's  courage, 
should  I  so  long  have  remained  wilting  and  festering  at  No.  2  ? 
The  sweet,  sharp  juices  of  the  clumsy  fruit  quenched  my  thirst. 
To  and  fro  swept  the  bees  along  their  airy  highway.     A  spiked 

365 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tree  of  late-blooming  bugloss  streamed  its  blue  and  purple  into 
my  eyes.  A  year  ago,  the  very  thought  of  exhibiting  myself  for 
filthy  (or  any  kind  of)  lucre  would  have  filled  me  with  unspeak- 
able shame.  But  what  else  had  I  been  doing  those  long,  drag- 
ging months?  What  had  Miss  M.  hired  herself  out  to  be  but 
a  pot  of  caviare  to  the  gourmets?  Puffed  up  with  conceit 
and  complacency,  I  had  been  merely  feeding  on  the  world's 
contempt  sauced  up  as  flattery.     Nonsensical  child. 

"Ah,  I  can  make  honey,  too,"  I  nodded  at  the  bees;  where- 
upon a  wasp  pounced  out  of  nowhere  upon  my  oozy  fruit,  and 
I  thrust  it  away  into  the  weeds.  But  how  refreshing  a  draught 
is  the  thought  of  action,  how  comforting  the  first  returning 
trickle  of  self-esteem.  My  body  sank  into  motionlessness.  The 
shadows  lengthened.     The  August  sun  slid  down  the  sky. 

Dusk  was  abroad  in  the  colder  garden,  and  the  last  bee 
home,  when,  with  plans  resolved  on,  I  stretched  my  stiffened 
limbs  and  made  my  way  into  the  house.  Excellent  augury — 
so  easy  had  been  my  daily  habits  that  no  one  had  noticed  my 
absence.  Supper  was  awaiting  me.  I  was  ravenous.  Up  and 
down  I  stumped,  gnawing  my  biscuit  and  sipping  my  sweet 
country  milk.  I  had  suddenly  realized  what  the  world  meant 
to  Fanny — an  oyster  for  her  sword.  Somewhere  I  have  read 
that  every  man  of  genius  hides  a  woman  in  his  breast.  Well, 
perhaps  in  mine  a  man  was  now  stirring — the  man  that  had 
occupied  my  Aunt  Kitilda's  skirts.     It  was  high  time. 

A  moon  just  past  its  quarter  was  sinking  in  the  heavens 
and  silvering  the  jessamine  at  my  window.  My  bosom  swelled 
with  longing  at  the  breath  of  the  slow  night  airs.  Monk's  House 
—I,  too,  had  my  ghosts  and  would  face  them  down,  would 
vanquish  fate  with  the  very  weapons  it  had  forged  for  my 
discomfiture.  In  that  sheltered  half-light  I  stood  myself  before 
a  down-tilted  looking-glass.  If  I  had  been  malshapen,  limbless, 
contorted,  I  would  have  drowned  myself  in  mud  rather  than 
feed  man's  hunger  for  the  monstrous  and  obscene.  No,  I  was  a 
beautiful  thing,  even  if  God  had  been  idly  at  play  when  He  had 
shaped  me,  and  had  then  flung  away  the  mould;  even  if  to 
Mrs  Monnerie  I  was  nothing  much  better  than  a  disreputable 
marionette.  So  I  boasted  myself.  Percy's  Chartreuse  had  been 
366 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

mere   whey    compared    with   the   fleeting    glimpse    of    a    tame 
circus  elephant. 

I  tossed  out  on  to  the  floor  the  old  Lyndsey  finery  which 
some  homesick  impulse  had  persuaded  me  to  bring  away  in  my 
trunk.  Seated  there  with  busy  needle  under  the  window,  sew- 
ing in  every  gewgaw  and  scrap  of  tinsel  and  finery  I  could 
lay  hands  on,  I  prepared  for  the  morrow.  How  happy  I  was. 
Bats  in  the  dewy  dusk-light  cast  faint,  flitting  shadows  on  the 
casements.  A  large  dark  moth  hawked  to  and  fro  above  my  head. 
It  seemed  I  could  spend  eternity  in  this  gentle  ardent  busyness. 
To  think  that  God  had  given  me  what  might  have  been  so 
dreadful  a  thing  as  solitude,  but  which  in  reality,  while  my 
thoughts  and  fingers  were  thus  placidly  occupied,  could  be  so 
sweet.  When  at  length  I  leaned  out  on  the  cold  sill,  my  work 
done,  wrists  and  shoulders  aching  with  fatigue,  Croomham  clock 
struck  two.  The  moon  was  set.  But  there,  as  if  in  my  own 
happy  mind,  away  to  the  East  shone  Orion.  Why,  Sirius,  then, 
must  be  in  hiding  under  that  quiet  shoulder  of  the  downs. 
A  dwindling  meteor  silvered  across  space;  I  breathed  a  wish, 
shivered,   and   drew  in. 

And  there  came  that  night  a  curious  dream.  I  dreamt  that 
I  was  a  great  soldier,  and  had  won  an  enormous  unparalleled 
battle.  Glaring  light  streamed  obliquely  across  a  flat  plain, 
humped  and  hummocked  with  the  bodies  of  the  dead  lying  in 
disorder.  I  was  standing  in  arrogant  reverie  alone,  a  few  paces 
distant — though  leagues  away  in  being — from  a  group  of  other 
officers,  who  were  looking  at  me.  And  I  suffered  the  streaming 
light  to  fall  upon  me,  as  I  gazed  into  my  joy  and  triumph 
with  a  kind  of  severe  nonchalance.  I>ut  though  my  face  under 
my  three-cornered  hat  can  have  expressed  only  calmness  and 
resolution,  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  my  thoughts  were  merely 
a  thin  wisp  of  smoke  above  the  crater  of  a  suppressed  volcano. 
Lest  I  should  be  detected  in  this  weakness,  I  turned  out  of  the 
glare,  ;>nd  without  premeditation,  began  to  step  lightly  and 
abstractedly  from  huddling  mound  to  mound.  And,  as  these 
heaps  of  the  dead  increased  in  size  in  the  gloom  after  the  white 
western  light  was  gone,  so  I  diminished,  until  I  was  but  a  kind 

367 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

of  infinitesimal  will-o'-the-wisp  gliding  from  peak  to  peak  of 
an  infernal  mausoleum  of  which  every  eye,  though  dead,  was 
watching  me.     But  there  was   one  Eye.  .  .  . 

And  that  is  all  of  the  dream  that  I  could  remember.  For 
then  I  awoke,  looking  into  the  dark.  A  pencil  ray  of  moonlight 
was  creeping  across  my  bed.  Peace  unutterable.  Over  my 
drowsy  eyes  once  more  the  clouds  descended,  and  once  more 
I  fell  asleep. 


368 


Chapter  Forty-Six 


NEXT  day,  after  a  long  lying-in-wait,  I  intercepted  Adam 
Waggett  and  beckoned  him  into  the  shrubbery.  First  I 
questioned  him.  A  bill  of  the  circus,  he  told  me,  had  al- 
ready been  left  at  the  lodge.  Its  tents  and  booths  and  Aunt  Sallies 
were  even  now  being  pitched  in  a  meadow  three  or  four  miles 
distant  and  this  side  the  neighbouring  town.  So  far,  so  good.  I 
told  him  my  plan.  He  could  do  nothing  but  look  at  me  like  a 
fish,  with  his  little  black  eyes,  as  I  sat  on  a  tree  stump  and  mar- 
shalled my  instructions. 

But  my  first  crucial  battle  had  been  fought  with  Adam  Waggett 
in  the  garden  at  Lyndsey.  He  had  neither  the  courage  nor  even 
the  cowardice  to  gainsay  me.  After  a  tedious  siege  of  his 
sluggish  wits,  greed  for  the  reward  I  promised  him,  the  as- 
surance that  if  we  were  discovered  the  guilt  should  rest  on  me, 
and  maybe  some  soupcon  of  old  sake's  sake  won  him  over.  The 
branches  of  the  trees  swayed  and  creaked  above  us  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  and  at  last,  looking  down  on  me  with  a  wry  face,  Adam 
promised  to  do  my  bidding. 

Six  had  but  just  struck  that  evening  when  there  came  the 
rap  of  his  knuckles  on  my  bedroom  door.  He  found  me  im- 
patiently striding  up  and  down  in  a  scintillating  bodice  and 
skirts  of  scarlet,  lemon,  and  silver — as  gay  and  gaudy  an  object 
as  the  waxen  Russian  Princess  I  had  seen  in  one  of  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie's  cabinets.  My  flaxen  hair  was  plaited  German-wise,  and 
tied  in  two  thumping  pigtails  with  a  green  ribbon ;  I  stood  and 
looked  at  him.  He  fumblingly  folded  his  hands  in  front  of  him  as 
he  stood  and  looked  back  at  me.  I  was  quivering  like  a  flame  in 
a  lamp.  And  never  have  I  been  so  much  flattered  as  by  the  silly, 
stupefied  stare  on  his   face. 

How  I  was  to  be  carried  to  the  circus  had  been  one  of  our 
most  difficult  problems.  This  cunning  creature  had  routed  out 
from  some  lumber-room  in  the  old  house  a  capacious  old  cage — 

369 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

now  rusty,  but  stout  and  solidly  made — that  must  once  have 
housed  the  aged  Chakka. 

"There,  miss,"  he  whispered  triumphantly;  "that's  the  ticket, 
and  right  to  a  hinch." 

I  confess  I  winced  at  his  "ticket."  But  Adam  had  cushioned 
and  padded  it  for  me,  and  had  hooded  it  over  with  a  stout  piece 
of  sacking,  leaving  the  ring  free.  Apart  from  our  furtive  prep- 
arations, evening  quiet  pervaded  the  house.  The  maids  were 
out  sweethearting,  he  explained.  Mrs  French  had  retired  as 
usual  to  her  own  sitting-room;  Fortune  seemed  to  be  smiling 
upon  me. 

"Then,  Adam,"  I  whispered,  "the  time  has  come.  Jerk  me 
as  little  as  possible;  and  if  questions  are  asked,  you  are  taking 
the  cage  to  be  mended,  you  understand?  And  when  we  get 
there,  see  no  one  but  the  man  or  the  woman  who  spoke  to  you 
at  the  gates." 

"Well,  miss,  it's  a  rum  go,"  said  Adam,  eyeing  me  with  a 
grotesque   grimace  of   anxiety. 

I  looked  up  at  him  from  the  floor  of  the  cage.  "The  rummer 
the  go  is,  Adam,  the  quicker  we  ought  to  be  about  it." 

He  lowered  the  wiry  dome  over  my  head ;  I  bunched  in  my 
skirts ;  and  with  the  twist  of  a  few  hooks  I  was  secure.  The  faint 
squeak  of  his  boots  told  me  that  he  had  stolen  to  the  door  to  listen. 

"All  serene,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  through  the  sacking.  [ 
felt  myself  lifted  up  and  up.  We  were  on  our  way.  Then, 
like  flies,  a  cloud  of  misgivings  settled  upon  my  mind.  As  best 
I  could  I  drove  them  away,  and  to  give  myself  confidence  began 
to  count.  A  shrill  false  whistling  broke  the  silence.  Adam  was 
approaching  the  lodge;  a  mocking  screech  of  its  gates,  and  we 
were  through.  After  that,  apart  from  the  occasional  beat  of 
hoofs  or  shoes,  a  country  "good-night,"  or  a  husky  cough  of 
encouragement  from  Adam,  I  heard  nothing  more.  The  gloom 
deepened.  The  heat  was  oppressive ;  I  became  a  little  seasick, 
and  pressing  my  mouth  to  a  small  slit  between  the  bars,  sucked 
in   what   fresh   air  I   could. 

.Midway  on  our  journey  Adam  climbed  over  a  stile  to  rest  a 
while,  and,  pushing  back  a  corner  of  the  sacking,  he  asked  me  how 
1    did. 

"Fine,  Adam,"  said  I,  panting.  "We  are  getting  along  fa- 
mously." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

The  fields  were  sweet  and  dusky.  It  was  a  clear  evening, 
and  refreshingly  cool. 

"You  may  smoke  a  pipe,  Adam,  if  you  wish,"  I  called  softly. 
And  while  he  puffed,  and  I  listened  to  the  chirping  of  a  cricket, 
he  told  me  of  a  young  housemaid  that  was  always  chaffing  and 
ridiculing  him  at  No.  2.  "It  may  be  that  she  has  taken  a 
passing  fancy  to  you,"  said  I,  looking  up  into  the  silent  oak 
tree  under  which  we  were  sitting.  "On  the  other  hand,  you  may 
deserve  it.     What  is  she  like,  Adam?" 

"Black  eyebrows,"  said  Adam.  "Shows  her  teeth  when  she 
laughs.  But  that's  no  reason  why  she  should  make  a  fool  of  a 
fellow." 

"The  real  question  is,  is  she  a  nice  modest  girl?"  said  I,  and 
my  bangles  jangled  as  I  raised  my  hand  to  my  hair.  "Come, 
Adam,  there's  no  time  to  waste;  are  you  ready?" 

He  grunted,  his  mind  still  far  away.  "She's  a  fair  sneak," 
he  said,  rapping  his  pipe-bowl  on  a  stone.     And  so,  up  and  on. 

Time  seemed  to  have  ceased  to  be,  in  this  jolting  monotony, 
unbroken  except  by  an  occasional  giddy ing  swing  of  my  universe 
as  Adam  transferred  the  cage  from  hand  to  hand.  Sweltering ly 
hot  without,  but  a  little  cold  within,  I  was  startled  by  a  far- 
away blare  of  music.  I  clutched  tight  the  slender  bars;  the 
music  ceased,  and  out  of  the  quiet  that  followed  rose  the  moaning 
roar  of  a  wild  beast. 

My  tongue  pressed  itself  against  my  teeth ;  the  sacking  trembled, 
and  a  faint  luminousness  began  to  creep  through  its  hempen 
strands.  Shouting  and  screaming,  catcalls  and  laughter  swelled 
near.  And  now  by  the  medley  of  smells  and  voices,  and  the 
glint  of  naked  lights  floating  in  on  me,  I  realized  that  we  had 
reached  our  goal. 

Adam  came  to  a  standstill.  "Where's  the  boss?"  The  tones 
were  thick  and  muffled.  A  feeble  smile  swept  over  my  face : 
I   discovered   I   was  holding   my   breath. 

A  few  paces  now,  the  din  distanced  a  little  and  the  glare 
diminished.  Then  sounded  another  voice  hoarse  and  violent, 
high   above  my  head. 

The  cage  bumped  to  the  ground.  And  I  heard  Adam  cring- 
ingly  explain  :     "I've  got  a    bird  here  for  you,  mister." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"A  bird,"  rang  the  jeer,  "who  wants  your  bloody  bird?  Be 
off." 

"Ay,  but  it  won't  be  a  bloody  bird,"  gasped  Adam  cajolingly, 
"when  you've  seen  her  pretty  feathers." 

At  this,  apparently,  recollection  of  Adam's  face  or  voice 
returned  to  the  showman.  He  remained  silent  while  with  palsied 
fingers  Adam  unlatched  my  bolts  and  bars.  Bent  almost  double 
and  half-stifled,  I  sat  there  in  sight,  my  clothes  spread  brightly 
out  about  me.  The  cool  air  swirled  in,  and  for  a  while  my 
eyes  dazzled  at  the  bubbling  blaze  of  a  naphtha  lamp  sus- 
pended from  the  pole  of  the  tent  above  the  criss-cross  green- 
bladed  grass  at  my  feet.     I  lifted  my  head. 

There  stood  Adam,  in  his  black  tail-coat  rubbing  his  arm; 
and  there  the  showman.  Still  to  the  tips  of  my  fingers,  I  sat 
motionless,  gazing  up  into  the  hard,  high-boned,  narrow-browed 
face  with  its  small  restless  eyes  voraciously  taking  me  in.  For- 
tunately the  choked  beating  of  my  heart  was  too  small  a  sound 
for  his  ear ;  and  he  was  the  first  to  withdraw  from  the  encounter. 

"My  God,"  he  muttered,  and  spat  into  a  corner  of  the  canvas 
booth — with  its  one  dripping  lamp,  its  rough  table  and  chair, 
and  a  few  oddments  of  his  trade. 

"And  what,  my  handsome  young  lady,"  he  went  on  in  a  low, 
carneying  tone,  and  fidgeting  with  his  hands,  "what  might  be 
your  little  imbroglio?" 

In  a  gush,  presence  of  mind  returned  to  me,  and  fear  passed 
away.  I  quietly  listened  to  myself  explaining  without  any  con- 
cealment precisely  what  was  my  little  imbroglio.  He  burst  out 
laughing. 

"Stage-struck,  eh?  There's  a  young  lady  now!  Well,  who's 
to  blame  'ee?" 

He  asked  me  my  age,  my  name,  where  I  came  from,  if  I 
could  dance,  sing,  ride;  and  stared  so  roundly  at  me  that  I 
seemed  to  see  my  garish  colours  reflected  in  the  metallic  grey 
of  his  eyes. 

All  this  was  on  his  side  of  the  bargain.  Now  came  mine. 
I  folded  tight  my  hands  in  my  lap,  glanced  up  at  the  flaming 
lamp.     How  much  would  he  pay  me? 

It  was  as  if  a  shutter  had  descended  over  his  face.  "Drat  me," 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

said  he,  "when  a  young  lady  comes  selling  anything,  she  asks  her 
price." 

So  I  asked  mine — fifteen  guineas  for  four  nights'  hire.  .  .  . 
To  look  at  that  human  animal  you  might  have  supposed  the 
actual  guineas  had  lodged  in  his  throat.  It  may  be  that  Shylock's 
was  a  more  modest  bargain.     I  cannot  say. 

At  first  thought  it  had  seemed  to  me  a  monstrous  sum,  but 
at  that  time  I  was  ignorant  of  what  a  really  fine  midget  fetched. 
It  was  but  half  my  old  quarterly  allowance,  with  £2  over  for 
Adam.  I  should  need  every  penny  of  it.  And  I  had  not  come 
selling  my  soul  without  having  first  decided  on  its  value.  The 
showman  fumed  and  blustered.  But  I  sat  close  on  Chakka's 
abandoned  stage,  perfectly  still,  making  no  answer;  finding, 
moreover,  in  Adam  an  unexpected  stronghold,  for  the  wider 
gawked  his  frightened  eyes  at  the  showman's  noise  and  gesticu- 
lations, the  more  resolved  I  became.  With  a  last  dreadful  oath, 
the  showman  all  but  kicked  a  hole  in  my  cage. 

"Take  me  away,  Adam,"  I  cried  quaveringly ;  "we  are  wasting 
this  gentleman's  time." 

I  smiled  to  myself,  in  spite  of  the  cold  tremors  that  were 
shaking  me  all  over;  with  every  nerve  and  sinew  of  his  corpulent 
body  he  was  coveting  me :  and  with  a  curse  he  at  last  accepted 
my  terms.  I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  but  still  refused  to  stir 
a  finger  until  our  contract  had  been  written  down  in  black  and 
white.  Maybe  some  tiny  love-bird  of  courage  roosts  beneath 
every  human  skull,  maybe  my  mother's  fine  French  blood  had 
rilled  to  the  surface.  However  that  may  be,  there  could  be 
no   turning  back.  , 

He  drew  out  a  stump  of  pencil  and  a  dirty  envelope.  "That, 
my  fine  cock,"  he  said  to  Adam,  as  he  wrote,  "that's  a  woman; 
and  you  make  no  mistake  about  it.     To  hell  with  your  fine  ladies." 

It  remains,  if  not  the  most  delicate,  certainly  one  of  the 
most  substantial  compliments  I  ever  earned  in  my  life. 

"That's  that,"  he  pretended  to  groan,  presenting  me  with 
his  scrawl.  "Ask  a  shark  for  a  stamp,  and  if  ruined  I  must  be 
— ruined  I   am." 

I  leapt  to  my  feet,  shook  out  my  tumbled  finery,  smiled  into 
his  stooping  face,  and  tucked  the  contract  into  my  bodice.     "Thank 

373 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

you,  sir,"  I  said,  "and  I  promise  you  shan't  be  ruined  if  /  can 
help  it."  Whereupon  Adam  became  exceedingly  merry,  the  dan- 
ger now  over. 

Such  are  the  facts  concerning  this  little  transaction,  so  far 
as  I  can  recall  them ;  yet  I  confess  to  being  a  little  incredulous. 
Have  I,  perhaps,  gilded  my  side  of  the  bargaining?  If  so,  I  am 
sure  my  showman  would  be  the  last  person  to  quarrel  with  me. 
I  am  inclined  to  think  he  had  taken  a  fancy  to  me.  Anyhow 
I  had  won — what  is,  perhaps,  even  better — his  respect.  And 
though  the  pay  came  late,  when  it  was  no  longer  needed,  and 
though  it  was  the  blackest  money  that  ever  touched  my  fingers, 
it  came.     And  if  anybody  was  the  defaulter,  it  was  I. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  My  gipsy  woman  was  sent  for 
from  the  shooting  gallery.  I  shook  hands  with  her ;  she  shook 
hands  with  Adam,  who  was  then  told  to  go  about  his  business 
and  to  return  to  the  tent  when  the  circus  was  over.  The  three 
of  us,  showman,  woman,  and  I,  conferred  together,  and  with 
extreme  cordiality  agreed  what  should  be  my  little  part  in  the 
performance.  The  booth  in  which  we  had  made  our  bargain 
was  hastily  prepared  for  my  "reception."  Its  table  was  to  be 
my  dais.  A  loose  flap  of  canvas  was  hung  to  one  side  of  it  to 
screen  me  off  from  prying  eyes  when  I  was  not  on  show.  My 
only  dangerous  rival,  it  appeared,  was  the  Spotted  Boy. 

There  followed  a  deafening  pealing  of  panpipes,  drumming 
of  drum,  and  yelling  of  voices.  In  that  monstrous  din  I  was 
past  thinking,  just  being;  and  I  bridled  to  myself  like  a  school- 
girl caught  in  a  delicious  naughtiness,  to  hear  the  fine  things — 
the  charms  and  marvels — which  my  showman  was  bawling  about 
me.  Then  one  by  one,  at  first  a  little  owlishly,  the  Great  Public, 
at  the  charge  of  6d.  per  adult  and  half  price  for  children  (or 
"full-growns  under  3  foot")  were  admitted  to  the  presence  of 
the  '  Signorina  Donna  Angelique,  the  Fairy  Princess  of  Anda- 
lusia in  Spain."     So  at  any  rate  declares  the  printed  handbill. 

In  the  attitude  of  Madame  Recamier  in  the  picture,  I  reclined 
on  a  lustrous  spread  of  crimson  satin  and  rabbit-skin  draped 
over  a  small  lump  of  wood  for  bolster  to  give  support  to  my 
elbow.  And  out  of  my  paint  and  powder,  from  amid  this  oasis 
— and  with  repeated  warnings  "not  to  touch"  screamed  by  my 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

gipsy — I  met  as  pleasantly  and  steadily  as  I  could  the  eyes  of 
the  grinning,  smirking,  awestruck  faces — townsfolk  and  village 
folk,  all  agape  and  all  sound  Kentish  stock. 

"That  isn't  real,  she's  a  doll,"  lisped  a  crepe-bonneted  little 
girl  who  with  skimpy  legs  dangling  out  of  her  petticoat  had 
been  hoisted  Up  under  her  armpits  for  a  clearer  view.  I  let 
a  little  pause  come,  then  turned  my  head  on  my  hand  and  smiled, 
leaned  over  and  eased  my  tinselled  slipper.  An  audible  sigh, 
sweet  as  incense,  went  up  under  the  hollow  of  the  booth.  I 
looked  on  softly  from  face  to  face — another  dream.  Some  captive 
beast  mewed  and  brushed  against  the  sides  of  a  cage  drawn 
up  a  yard  or  two  from  where  I  lay.  The  lamp  poured  flame 
and  smoke.  The  canvas  quietly  flapped,  and  was  still.  Wild 
ramped  the  merry-go-round  with  its  hells  and  hootings;  and  the 
panpipes  sobbed  their  liquid  decoy.  The  Signorina's  first  re- 
ception was  over. 

News  of  her  spread  like  wildfire.  I  could  hear  the  showman 
bellowing  at  the  press  of  people.  His  guineas  were  fructifying. 
And  a  peculiar  rapturous  gravity  spread  over  me.  When  one's 
very  self  is  wrapt  in  the  ordeal  of  the  passing  moment,  is  lost 
like  that,  out  of  time  and  space,  it  seems,  well — another  presence 
had  stolen  into  my  mind,  had  taken  possession.  I  cannot  ex- 
plain. But  in  this,  it  may  be,  all  men  are  equal,  whatever  their 
lot.  So,  I  suppose,  a  flower  breaks  out  of  the  bud,  and  butterflies 
put  off  the  mask  of  the  chrysalis,  and  rainbows  mount  the  skies. 
But  I  must  try  not  to  rhapsodize.  All  I  know  is  that  even  in 
that  low  self-surrender,  some  tiny  spark  of  life  in  me  could  not  be 
content  to  let  my  body  remain  a  mere  mute  stock  for  the  ignorant 
wonder  of  those  curious  eyes. 

The  actual  impulse,  however,  came  from  a  young  woman 
who,  when  next  the  people  had  streamed  in,  chanced  to  be 
standing  close  beside  me.  She  was  a  weak-lookinc:  thing,  vet 
reminded  me  in  a  sorrowful  fashion  of  Fanny.  Caught  back  by 
her  melancholy,  empty  eyes,  I  seemed  to  lose  myself  in  their 
darkness;  to  realize  that  she,  too,  was  in  trouble.  I  craned 
up  from  my  wooden  bolster  and  whispered  in  her  hair  :  "Patience, 
patience.  There  shall  be  a  happy  issue,  my  dear,  out  of  all 
your   afflictions." 

Only  she  herself  and  a  weedy,  sallow  young  man  in  her  com- 

375 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

pany  could  have  heard  these  words.  A  glint  of  fright  and  des- 
peration sprang  into  her  large-pupilled  eyes.  But  I  smiled,  and 
we  exchanged  kindness.  She  moistened  her  lips,  turned  from 
me,  and  clutching  at  the  young  man's  arm,  edged  her  way  out  of 
the  throng  and  vanished. 

"And  what  sort  be  this  un?"  roared  an  ox-faced,  red-haired 
man  from  the  back.  "This  un"  hung  on  his  shoulder,  tiptoe,  fair, 
young,  and  blowsy. 

"She'll  coin  you  money,"  I  cried  pleasantly,  "and  spend  it. 
The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  world." 

"And  him,  and  him?  the  toad!"  cried  the  girl  half-angrily 
at  the  shout  of  merriment  that  had  shaken  the  tent. 

"Why,  pretty  maid,"  piped  I,  "the  nearer  the  wine  the  sweeter 
the  cork;  the  plumper  the  pig  the  fatter  the  pork."  The  yell 
that  followed  was  a  better  advertisement  than  drum  or  panpipes. 
The  showman  had  discovered  an  oracle !  For  the  next  half-hour 
my  booth  was  a  mass  of  "Sixpennies" — the  squirming  Three- 
pennies  were  told  to  wait.  It  filled  and  emptied  again  and  again 
like  a  black  bottle  in  the  Dog  Days.  And  when  the  spirit  moved 
me,  I  singled  out  a  tell-tale  face  and  told  its  fortune — not  less 
shrewdly  on  the  whole,  I  think,  than  Mrs  Ballard's  Book  of 
Fate. 

But  it  was  a  strangely  exhausting  experience.  I  was  inex- 
pressibly relieved  when  it  was  over ;  when  the  tent-flap  descended 
for  the  last  time,  and  I  could  rest  from  my  labours,  puffed  up, 
no  doubt,  with  far  too  rich  a  conceit  of  myself,  but  immeasur- 
ably grateful  and  happy.  Comparative  quiet  descended  on  the 
meadows.  From  a  neighbouring  tent  broke  shattering  bursts 
of  music,  clapping  and  thumping,  the  fretful  growling  of  the 
beasts,  the  elephant's  trumpeting,  the  firing  of  guns,  whoops, 
caterwauling,  and  the  jangling  of  harness.  The  Grand  Circus 
was  in  progress,  and  fantasy  made  a  picture  for  me  of  every  sound. 

Presently  my  showman  reappeared,  leading  in  a  pacing,  smooth- 
skinned,  cinnamon-and-milk-dappled  pony,  bridled  and  saddled 
with  silver  and  scarlet,  bis  silky  mane  daintily  plaited,  his  tail 
a  sweeping  plume.  He  stood,  I  should  guess,  about  half  a  hand 
higher  than  my  childhood's  Mopsa — the  prettiest  pygmy  creature, 
though  obviously  morose  and  unsettled  in  temper.  I  took  a  good 
long  look  at  his  pink  Albino  eye.  But  a  knack  once  acquired 
376 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

is  quickly  recovered.  I  mounted  him.  The  stirrup  was  ad- 
justed, one  of  my  German  plaits  was  dandled  over  my  shoulder, 
and  after  a  leisurely  turn  or  two  in  the  open,  I  nodded  that  the 
highborn  Angelique  was  ready. 

The  showman,  leering  avariciously  at  me  out  of  his  shifty 
eyes,  led  us  on  towards  the  huge  ballooning  tent,  its  pennon 
fluttering  darkly  against  the  stars.  I  believe  if  in  that  spirituous 
moment  he  had  muttered,  "Fly  with  me,  fairest!"  all  cares 
forgotten,  I'd  have  been  gone.     He  held  his  peace. 

The  brass  band  within  wrenched  and  blared  into  the  tune  of 
"The  Girl  I  Left  behind  Me."  Chafing,  pawing,  snorting,  my 
steed,  with  its  rider,  paused  in  the  entry.  Then  with  a  last  smirk 
of  encouragement  from  the  gipsy  woman,  the  rein  was  loosed, 
I  bowed  my  head,  and  the  next  moment,  as  if  in  a  floating  vat 
of  light,  I  found  myself  cantering  wellnigh  soundlessly  round 
the  ring,  its  circumference  thronged  tier  above  tier  in  the  smoke- 
laden  air  with  ghost-white  rings  of  faces. 

I  smiled  fixedly,  tossing  my  fingers.  A  piebald  clown  came 
wambling  in  to  meet  me,  struck  his  hand  on  his  foolish  heart, 
and  fell  flat  in  the  tan.  Love  at  first  sight.  Over  his  prostrate 
body  we  ambled,  the  ill-tempered  little  beast  naggling  at  its 
bit,  and  doing  his  utmost  to  unseat  me.  The  music  ceased. 
The  cloud  of  witnesses  loured.  Come  Night,  come  Nero,  I  didn't 
care!  Edging  the  furious  little  creature  into  the  centre  of  the 
ring,  I  mastered  him,  wheeled  him,  in  a  series  of  obeisances — 
North,  South,  East,  West.  A  hurricane — such  as  even  Mr 
Bowater  can  never  have  outridden — a  hurricane  of  applause  burst 
bounds  and  all  but  swept  me  out  of  the  saddle.  "Good-bye, 
Sweetheart,  Good-bye !"  sang  cornet  and  trombone.  With  a  toss, 
I  swept  my  plaits  starwards,  brandished  my  whip  at  the  faces, 
and  galloped  out  into  the  night. 

My  debut  was  over.  I  confess  it — the  very  memory  of  it 
carries  me  away  even  now.  And  even  now  I  would  maintain 
that  it  was  at  least  a  little  more  successful  than  that  other  less 
professional  debut  which  poor  Mr  Crimble  and  Lady  Pollacke 
had  left  unacclaimed  in  Beech  wood  High  Street. 


377 


Chapter  Forty-Seven 


MY  showman,  his  hard  face  sleek  with  sweat,   insisted  on 
counting  out  three  huge  platelike  crown  pieces  into  my 
lap — for  a  douceur.     I  brushed  them  off  on  to  the  ground. 
"Only  to  clinch  the  bargain,"  he  said.     His  teeth  grinned  at  me  as 
if  he  would  gladly  have  swallowed  me  whole. 

"Pick  up  the  money,"  said  I  coldly,  determined  once  and  for 
all  to  keep  him  in  his  place.  "It's  early  days  yet."  But  when 
my  back  was  turned,  covetous  Adam  took  charge  of  it. 

While  we  trudged  along  homeward — for  in  the  deserted  night 
the  cage  was  unnecessary,  until  I  was  too  tired  to  go  further — 
I  listened  to  the  coins  clanking  softly  together  in  Adam's  pocket. 
It  was  an  intoxicating  lullaby.  But  such  are  the  revulsions  of 
success,  for  hours  and  hours  that  night  I  lay  sleepless.  Once  I 
got  up  and  put  my  hand  in  where  the  crowns  were,  to  assure 
myself  I  was  awake.  But  the  dream  which  visited  me — between 
the  watches  of  remorse — I  shall  keep  to  myself. 

With  next  day's  sun,  the  Signorina  had  become  the  talk  of 
the  country-side,  and  Adam's  vacant  face  must  have  stood  him 
in  good  stead.  She  had  been  such  "a  draw,"  he  told  me,  that 
the  showman  had  decided  to  stay  two  more  nights  on  the  same 
pitch :  which  was  fortunate  for  us  both.  Especially  as  on  the 
third  afternoon  heavy  rain  fell,  converting  the  green  field  into 
a  morass.  With  evening  the  clouds  lifted,  and  a  fulling  moon 
glazed  the  puddles,  and  dimmed  the  glow-worm  lamps.  Impulse 
is  a  capricious  master.  I  did  my  best,  for  even  when  intuition 
fails  my  sex,  there's  obstinacy  to  fall  back  upon;  but  all  that 
I  had  formerly  achieved  with  ease  had  to  be  forced  out  of  me 
that  night  with  endless  effort.  The  Oracle  was  unwilling.  When 
a  genteel  yet  foxy  looking  man,  with  whiskers  and  a  high  stiff 
collar  under  his  chin,  sneakishly  invited  me  to  tell  his  fortune,  and 
I  replied  that  "Prudent  chickens  roost  high,"  the  thrust  was  a  little 
too  deft.  My  audience  was  amused,  but  nobody  laughed. 
378 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

He  seemed  to  be  well  known,  and  the  green  look  he  cast  me 
proved  that  the  truth  is  not  always  palatable  or  discreet.  Unse- 
duced  by  the  lumps  of  sugar  which  I  had  pilfered  for  him,  my 
peevish  mount  jibbed  and  bucked  and  all  but  flung  the  Princess  of 
Andalusia  into  the  sodden  ring.  He  succeeded  in  giving  a  painful 
wrench  to  her  wrist,  which  doubled  the  applause. 

A  strange  thing  happened  to  me,  too,  that  night.  When  for  the 
second  or  third  time  the  crowd  was  flocking  in  to  view  me,  my  eyes 
chanced  to  fall  on  a  figure  standing  in  the  clouded  light  a  little 
apart.  He  was  dressed  in  a  high-peaked  hat  and  a  long  and  seem- 
ingly brown  cassock-like  garment,  with  buttoned  tunic  and  silver- 
buckled  leather  belt.  Spurs  were  on  his  boots,  a  light  whip  in  his 
hand.  Aloof,  his  head  a  little  bowed  down,  his  face  in  profile,  he 
stood  there,  framed  in  the  opening,  dusky,  level-featured,  deep- 
eyed — a   Stranger. 

What  in  me  rushed  as  if  on  wings  into  his  silent  company?  A 
passionate  longing  beyond  words  burned  in  me.  I  seemed  to  be 
carried  away  into  a  boundless  wilderness — stunted  trees,  salt  in  the 
air,  a  low,  enormous  stretch  of  night  sky,  space ;  and  this  man,  mas- 
ter of  soul  and  solitude. 

He  never  heeded  me;  raised  not  an  eyelid  to  glance  into  my  tent. 
If  he  had,  what  then?  I  was  a  nothing.  When  next,  after  the 
press  of  people,  I  looked,  he  was  gone;  I  saw  him  no  more.  Yet 
the  girlish  remembrance  remains,  consoling  this  superannuated 
heart  like  a  goblet  of  flowers  in  that  secret  chamber  of  the  mind  we 
call  the  imagination. 

The  fall  from  that  giddy  moment  into  this  practical  world  was 
abrupt.  Sulky,  tired  with  the  rain  and  the  cumbersome  cage  and 
the  showman's  insults,  on  our  arrival  at  Monk's  House  Adam  was 
completely  unnerved  when  he  found  our  usual  entry  locked  and 
bolted. 

He  gibbered  at  me  like  a  mountebank  in  the  windy  moonlight,  his 
conical  head  blotting  out  half  the  cloud-wracked  sky.  These  gal- 
livantings  were  as  much  as  his  place  was  worth.  He  would  wring 
the  showman's  neck.  He  had  a  nail  in  his  shoe.  He  had  been  re- 
spectable all  his  life;  and  what  was  I  going  to  do  about  it?  A  nice 
kettle  of  fish.  Oh,  yes,  he  had  had  "a  lick  or  two  of  the  old  lady's 
tongue"  already,  and  he  didn't  want  another.  What's  more,  there 
was  the  mealy-mouthed  Marvell  to  reckon  with. 

379 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Once  free  of  the  cage,  I  faced  him  and  desired  to  know  whether 
he  would  be  happier  if  I  wrote  at  once  to  Mrs  Monnerie  and  ab- 
solved him  there  and  then.  "Look  at  yourself  in  your  own  mind," 
I  bade  him.  "What  a  sight  is  a  coward !"  And  I  fixed  him  with 
none  too  friendly  an  eye  under  the  moon. 

His  clumsiness  in  opening  a  window  disturbed  Mrs  French. 
She  came  to  the  head  of  the  staircase  and  leaned  over,  while  we 
crouched  in  a  recess  beneath.  But  while  the  beams  of  the  candle 
she  carried  were  too  feeble  to  pierce  the  well  of  darkness  between 
us,  by  twisting  round  my  head  I  could  see  every  movement  and 
changing  expression  of  the  shape  above  me — the  frilled,  red-flannel 
dressing-gown,  the  shawl  over  her  head,  and  her  inflamed  peering 
face  surmounted  with  a  "front"  of  hair  in  pins.  She  was  talking 
to  herself  in  peculiar  guttural  mutterings.  But  soon,  either  be- 
cause she  was  too  sleepy  or  too  indolent  to  search  further,  she  with- 
drew again;  and  Adam  and  I  were  free  to  creep  up  the  glooming 
shallow  staircase  into  safety. 

Last  but  not  least,  when  I  came  to  undress,  I  found  that  my 
grandfather's  little  watch  was  gone.  In  a  fever  I  tumbled  my 
clothes  over  again  and  again.  Then  I  sat  down  and  in  memory 
went  over  the  events  of  the  evening,  and  came  at  last  to  the  thief. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  him — a  small-headed,  puny  man,  who 
almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes  had  besought  me  to  give  him  one  of 
my  buttons  to  take  home  to  his  crippled  little  daughter.  He  had 
pressed  close :  my  thoughts  had  been  far  away.  I  confess  this 
loss  unnerved  me — a  haggard  face  looked  out  of  my  glass.  I 
scrambled  into  bed,  and  sought  refuge  as  quickly  as  possible  from 
these  heart-burnings. 

After  such  depressing  experiences  Adam's  resolution  was  at  an 
even  lower  ebb  next  morning.  We  met  together  under  the  sunny 
whispering  pine-trees.  I  wheedled,  argued,  adjured  him  in  vain. 
Almost  at  my  wits'  end  at  last,  I  solemnly  warned  him  that  if  we 
failed  the  showman  the  following  evening,  he  would  assuredly  have 
the  law  against  us.  "A  pretty  pair  we  shall  look,  Adam,  standing 
up  there  in  the  dock — with  the  black  cap  and  the  wigs  and  the 
policemen  and  everything.     And  not  a  penny  for  our  pains." 

lie  squinted  at  me  in  unfeigned  alarm  at  this;  the  lump  in  his 
throat  went  up  and  down ;  and  though  possibly  I  had  painted  the 
picture  in  rather  sombre  colours,  this  settled  the  matter.  I  hope 
380 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

it  taught  Adam  to  fight  shy  ever  afterwards  of  adventuresses.  It 
certainly  taught  this  adventuress  that  the  mind  may  be  "subdued  to 
what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand."  I  cast  a  look  of  hatred 
after  the  weak,  silly  man  as  he  disappeared  between  the  trees. 

The  circus,  so  the  showman  had  warned  me,  was  moving  on  that 
day  to  another  market  town,  Whippington — six  miles  or  so  from 
its  present  pitch,  though  not  more  than  four  miles  further  away 
from  Croomham.  This  would  mean  a  long  and  wearisome  trudge 
for  us  the  next  evening,  as  I  found  on  consulting  an  immense  map 
of  Kent.  Yet  my  heart  sighed  with  delight  at  the  discovery  that, 
as  the  dove  flies,  we  should  be  a  full  five  miles  nearer  to  Beech- 
wood.  If  this  little  church  on  the  map  was  St  Peter's,  and  this 
faint  shading  the  woody  contour  of  the  Hill,  why,  then,  that  square 
dot  was  W'anderslore.  I  sprawled  over  the  outspread  county  with 
sublime  content.  My  very  "last  appearance"  was  at  hand ;  liberty 
but  a  few  hollow  hours  away. 

It  is  true  I  had  promised  my  showman  to  think  over  his  invita- 
tion to  me  to  "sign  on"  as  a  permanent  member  of  his  troupe  of 
clowns,  acrobats,  wild  beasts,  and  monstrosities.  He  had  engaged 
in  return  to  pay  me  in  full,  "with  a  bit  over,"  at  the  close  of  the 
last  performance.  But  I  had  merely  laughed  and  nodded.  Not 
that  I  was  in  any  true  sense  ashamed  of  what  I  had  done.  Not 
ashamed. 

But  you  cannot  swallow  your  pride  and  your  niceness  without 
any  discomfort.  I  was  conscious  of  a  hardening  of  the  skin,  of  a 
grimness  stealing  over  my  month,  and  of  a  tendency  to  stare  at  the 
world  rather  more  boldly  than  modesty  should.  At  least,  so  it 
seemed.  In  reality  it  may  have  been  that  Life  was  merely  scraping 
off  the  "cream."     Quite  a  wholesome  experience. 

On  the  practical  side,  all  was  well.  Two  pounds  to  Adam, 
which  I  had  promised  to  make  three. if  he  earned  it,  would  leave 
me  with  thirteen  or  twelve  pounds  odd.  apart  from  my  clumsy 
"douceur."  I  thirsted  for  my  wages.  With  that  sum — two  five- 
pound  notes  and  say,  four  half-sovereigns — sewn  up.  if  possible, 
in  my  petticoat,  I  should  once  more  be  my  own  mistress;  and  I 
asked  no  more  for  the  moment.  The  future  must  take  care  of 
itself.  On  one  thing  I  was  utterly  resolved — never,  never  to 
return  to  Monk's  House,  or  to  No.  2 — to  that  old  squalid  luxury. 
dissembling  and  humiliation 

38i 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

No :  my  Monnerie  days  were  over ;  even  though  it  had  taken  a 
full  pound  of  their  servile  honey  to  secrete  this  ounce  of  rebellious 
wax. 

How  oddly  chance  events  knit  themselves  together.  That  very 
morning  I  had  received  a  belated  and  re-addressed  letter  which 
smote  like  sunbeams  on  my  hopes  and  plans.  It  was  from  Mrs 
Bowater : — 

"Dear  Miss  M., — I  send  this  line  to  say  that  I  am  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living.  I  have  buried  my  poor  husband  but  have  hopes 
some  day  of  bringing  him  home.  England  is  England  when  all's  said 
and  done,  and  I  can't  say  I  much  approve  of  foreign  parts.  It's  a 
fine  town  and  not  what  you  might  call  foreign  to  look  at  the  buildings, 
but  moist  and  flat  and  the  streets  like  a  draughtboard.  And  the 
thought  of  the  cattle  upsets  me.  Everything  topsy-turvy  too  with 
Spring  coming  along  and  breaking  out  and  we  here  on  the  brink 
of  September.  It  has  been  an  afflicting  time  though  considering  all 
things  he  made  a  peaceful  end,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  as  you  would 
hardly   consider   possible. 

"The  next  fortnight  will  see  me  on  board  the  steamer  again,  which 
I  can  scarcely  support  the  thought  of,  though,  please  God,  I  shall 
see  it  through.  I  have  spent  many  days  alone  here  and  the  strange- 
ness of  it  all  and  the  foreign  faces  bring  up  memories  which  are 
happier  forgotten.  But  I'm  often  thinking  what  fine  things  you  must 
be  doing  in  that  fine  place.  Not  as  I  think  riches  will  buy  every- 
thing in  this  world — and  a  mercy  too — or  that  I'm  not  anxious  at 
times  you  don't  come  to  harm  with  that  delicate  frame  and  all.  Wrap 
up  warm,  miss,  be  watchful  of  your  victuals  and  keep  early  hours. 
Such  being  so,  I'm  still  hoping  when  I  come  home,  if  I'm  spared, 
you  may  be  of  a  mind  to  come  to  Beechwood  Hill  again  and  maybe 
settle  down. 

"I  may  say  that  I  had  my  suspicions  for  some  time  that  that  young 
Mr  Anon  was  consumptive  in  the  lungs.  But  from  what  I  gathered 
he  isn't,  only  suffering  from  a  stomach  cough — bad  cooking  and  ex- 
posing himself  in  all  weathers.  I  will  say  nothing  nearer.  I  shall 
be  easier  off  as  money  goes,  but  you  and  me  needn't  think  of  that. 
Fanny  doesn't  write  much  and  which  I  didn't  much  expect.  She  is 
of  an  age  now  which  must  reap  as  it  has  sown,  though  even  allow- 
ing for  the  accident  of  birth,  as  they  say,  a  mother's  a  mother  till 
the  end  of  the  chapter.  I  must  now  close.  May  the  Lord1  bless 
you,   miss,  wherever   you    may   be. 

Yours  truly, 

"E.  Bowater  (Mrs)." 
382 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Surely  this  letter  was  a  good  omen.  It  cheered  me,  and  yet 
it  was  disquieting,  too.  That  afternoon  I  spent  in  the  garden, 
wandering  irresolutely  up  and  down  under  the  blue  sky,  and 
fretting  at  the  impenetrable  wall  of  time  that  separated  me  from 
the  longed-for  hour  of  freedom.  On  a  sunny  stone  near  a 
foresty  bed  of  asparagus  I  sat  down  at  last,  tired,  and  a  little 
dispirited.  I  was  angry  with  myself  for  the  last  night's  failure, 
and  for  a  kind  of  weakness  that  had  come  over  me.  Yet  how 
different  a  creature  was  here  to-day  from  that  of  only  a  week 
ago.  From  the  darkened  soil  the  stalks  sprang  up,  stiffened 
and  green  with  rain.  A  snail  reared  up  her  horns  beneath  my 
stone.  An  azure  butterfly  alighted  on  my  knee,  slowly  fanning 
its  turquoise  wings,  patterned  with  a  delicate  narrow  black  band 
on  the  one  side,  and  spots  of  black  and  orange  like  a  Paisley 
shawl  beneath.  Between  silver-knobbed  antennae  its  furry  per- 
plexed face  and  shining  eyes  looked  out  at  me,  sharing  my 
warmth.  I  watched  it  idly.  How  long  we  had  been  strangers. 
And  surely  the  closer  one  looked  at  anything  that  was  not  of 
man's  making  .  .  .  My  thoughts  drifted  away.  I  began  day- 
dreaming again. 

And  it  seemed  that  life  was  a  thing  that  had  neither  any  plan 
nor  any  purpose;  that  I  was  sunk,  as  if  in  a  bog,  in  ignorance  of 
why  or  where  or  who  I  truly  was.  The  days  melted  on,  to  be 
lost  or  remembered,  the  Spring  into  Summer,  and  then  Winter 
and  death.  What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all — this  enormous 
ocean  of  time  and  space  in  which  I  was  lost?  Never  else  than 
a  stranger.  That  couldn't  be  true  of  the  men  and  women  who 
really  keep  the  world's  "pot  boiling."  All  /  could  pray  for  was 
to  sit  like  this  for  a  while,  undisturbed  and  at  peace  with  my 
own  heart.  Peace — did  I  so  much  as  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word?  How  dingy  a  patchwork  I  had  made  of  everything. 
And  how  customary  were  becoming  these  little  passing  fits  of 
repining  and  remorse.  The  one  sole  thing  that  comforted  me 
— apart  from  my  blue  butterfly — was  an  echo  in  my  head  of  those 
clapping  hands,  whoops  and  catcalls — and  thq  white  staring 
faces  in  the  glare.  And  a  few  months  ago  this  would  have 
seemed  an  incredible  degradation. 

There  stole   into  memory   that   last  evening  at   Wanderslore. 
What  would  he  think  of  me  now?     I  had  done  worse  than  for- 

383 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

get  him,  had  learned  in  one  single  instant  that  for  ever  and 
ever,  however  dearly  I  liked  and  valued  him  and  delighted  in 
his  company,  I  could  not  be  "in  love"  with  him.  I  hid  my  face 
in  my  hands.  Yet  a  curious  quiet  wish  for  his  company  sprang  up 
in  me.  How  stiff-necked  and  affected  I  had  been.  Love  was 
nothing  but  cheating.  Let  me  but  confess,  explain,  ask  forgive- 
ness, unburden  myself.  Those  hollow  temples,  that  jutting  jaw, 
the  way  he  stooped  on  his  hands  and  coughed.  My  great-aunt, 
Kitilda,  had  died  in  her  youth  of  consumption.  A  sudden  dread, 
like  a  skeleton  out  of  the  sky,  stood  up  in  my  mind.  There 
was  no  time  to  delay.  To-morrow  night,  Adam  or  no  Adam, 
I  would  set  off  to  find  him :  all  would  be  well. 

As   if   in   response   to   my   thought,   a   shadow   stole   over  the 
stones  beside  me.     I  looked  up  and — aghast — saw  Fanny. 


384 


Chapter  Forty-Eight 


HER  head  was  turned  away  from  me,  a  striped  parasol  leaned 
over   her    shoulder.     With    a    faintly    defiant    tilt    of    her 
beautiful    head,    as    if    exclaiming,    "See,    Strangeness,    I 
come!"  she  stepped  firmly  on  over  the  turf.     A  breath  of  some 
delicate  indoor  perfume  was  wafted  across  to  my  nostrils.     I  clung 
to  my  stone,  watching  her. 

Simply  because  it  seemed  a  meanness  to  play  the  spy  on  her 
in  her  solitude,  I  called  her  name.  But  her  start  of  surprise 
was  mere  feigning.  The  silk  of  her  parasol  encircled  her  shoulders 
like  an  immense  nimbus.  Her  eyes  dwelt  on  me,  as  if  gathering 
up  the  strands  of  an  unpleasing  memory. 

"Ah,  Midgetina,"  she  called  softly,  "it  is  you,  is  it,  on  your 
little  stone  ?  Are  you  better  ?"  The  very  voice  seemed  conscious 
of  its  own  cadences.  "What  a  delicious  old  garden.  The  con- 
trast !" 

The  contrast.  With  a  cold  gathering  apprehension  at  my  heart 
I  glanced  around  me.  Why  was  it  that  of  all  people  only  Fanny 
could  so  shrink  me  up  like  this  into  my  body?  And  there 
floated  back  to  remembrance  the  vast,  dazzling  room,  the  flower- 
clotted  table,  and,  in  that  hideous  vertigo,  a  face  frenzied  with 
disgust  and  rage,  a  hand  flung  out  to  cast  me  off.  But  I  entered 
her  trap  none  the  less. 

"Contrast,  Fanny?" 

"No,  no,  now,  my  dear!  Not  quite  so  disingenuous  as  all 
that,  please.     You  can't  have  quite  forgotten  the  last  time  we  met." 

"There  was  nothing  in  that,  Fanny.  Only  that  the  midge 
was  drunk.  You  should  see  the  wasps  over  there  in  the  nec- 
tarines." 

"Only?"  she  echoed  lightly,  raising  her  eyebrows.  "I  am  not 
sure  that  every  one  would  put  it  quite  like  that.  You  couldn't 
see  yourself,  you  see.  They  call  you  little  Miss  Cassandra 
now.     Woe!  Woe!  you  know.     Mrs    Monnerie  asked  me  if   I 

385 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

thought     you     were — you     know — 'all     there,'     as     they     say." 

"I  don't  care  what  they  say." 

"If  I  weren't  an  old  friend,"  she  returned  with  crooked  lip, 
"you  might  be  made  to  care.  I  have  brought  the  money  you 
were  kind  enough  to  lend  me ;  I'll  give  it  you  when  I  have 
unpacked — to-morrow  night." 

My  body  sank  into  a  stillness  that  might  well  have  betrayed 
its  mind's  confusion  to  a  close  observer.  Had  she  lingered 
satirically,  meaningly,  on  those  two  last  words?  "I  don't  want 
the  money,  Fanny :  aren't  you  generous  enough  to  accept  a 
gift?" 

"Well,"  said  she,  "it  needs  a  good  deal  of  generosity  some- 
times. Surely,  a  gift  depends  upon  the  spirit  in  which  it  is 
given.  That  last  little  message,  now — was  that,  shall  we  say, 
an  acceptable  gift?"  Her  tones  lost  their  silkiness.  "See  here, 
Midgetina,"  she  went  on  harshly,  "you  and  I  are  going  to  talk 
all  this  out.  But  I'm  thirsty.  I  hate  this  spawning  sun.  Where 
are  the  nectarines?" 

Much  against  my  will  I  turned  my  back  on  her,  and  led  her 
off  to  the  beehives. 

"One  for  you,"  she  said,  stooping  forward,  balancing  the 
sheeny  toe  of  her  shoe  on  the  brown  mould,  "and  the  rest  for 
me.  Catch!"  She  dropped  a  wasp-bitten,  pulpy  fruit  into  my 
hands.  "Now  then.  It's  shadier  here.  No  eavesdroppers. 
Just  you  and  me  and  God.     Please  sit  down?" 

There  was  no  choice.  Down  I  sat;  and  she  on  a  low  wooden 
seat  opposite  me  in  the  shade,  her  folded  parasol  beside  her, 
the  leaf-hung  wall  behind.  She  bit  daintily  into  the  juicy  nec- 
tarine poised  between  finger  and  thumb,  and  watched  me  with 
a  peculiar  fixed  smile,  as  if  of  admiration,  on  her  pale  face. 

"Tell  me,  pretty  Binbin,"  she  began  again,  "what  is  the  name 
of  that  spiked  red  and  blue  and  violet  thing  behind  your  back? 
It  colours  the  edges  of  your  delicate  china  cheeks.  Most  becom- 
ing!" 

It  was  viper's  bugloss— a  stray,  I  told  her,  shifting  my  head 
uneasily   beneath   her   scrutiny. 

"Ah,  yes,  viper's  bugloss.  Personally  I  prefer  the  common 
variety.  Though  no  doubt  that  may  stray,  too.  But  fie,  fie! 
You  naughty  thing,"  she  sprang  up  and  plucked  another  nec- 
386 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tarine,  "you  have  been  blacking  your  eyebrows.  I  shouldn't 
have  dreamt  it  of  you.     What  would  mother  say?" 

"Listen,  Fanny,"  I  said,  pronouncing  the  words  as  best  I 
could  with  a  tongue  that  seemed  to  be  sticking  to  the  roof  of 
my  mouth;  "I  am  tired  of  the  garden.  What  do  you  really 
want  to  say  to  me  ?     I  don't  much  care  for  your — your  fun." 

"And  I  just  beginning  to  enjoy  it!  There's  contrariness! 
— To  say?  Well,  now,  a  good  deal,  my  dear.  I  thought  of 
writing.  But  it's  better — safer  to  talk.  The  first  thing  is  this. 
While  you  have  been  malingering  down  here  I  have  had  to  face 
the  whole  Monnerie  orchestra.  It  hasn't  been  playing  quite  in 
tune;  and  you  know  why.  That  lovesick  Susan,  now,  and  her 
nice  young  man.  But  since  you  seem  to  be  quite  yourself  again 
— more  of  yourself  than  ever,  in  fact:  listen."  I  gazed,  almost 
hypnotized,  through  the  sunshine  into  her  shady  face. 

"What  I  am  going  to  suggest,"  she  went  on  smoothly,  "con- 
cerns only  you  and  me.  If  you  and  I  are  to  go  on  living  in  the 
same  house — which  heaven  forbid — I  give  you  fair  warning 
that  we  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  one  another  than 
is  absolutely  inevitable.  I  am  not  so  forgiving  as  I  ought  to 
be,  Midgetina,  and  insults  rankle.  Treachery,  still  more."  The 
low  voice  trembled. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  may  roll  your  innocent  little  eyes  and  look 
as  harmless  as  a  Chinese  god,  but  answer  me  this :  Am  /  a 
hypocrite?  Am  I?  And  while  you  are  thinking  it  over,  hadn't 
you  better  tumble  that  absurd  little  pumpkin  off  your  knee? 
It's  staining  your  charming  frock." 

"I  never  said  you  were  a  hypocrite,"  I  choked. 

"No?"  The  light  gleamed  on  the  whites  of  her  eyes  as  they 
roved  to  and  fro.  "Then  I  say,  you  are.  Fair  to  face,  false  to 
back.  Who  first  trapped  me  out  star-gazing  in  the  small  hours, 
then  played  informer?  Who  wheedled  her  way  on  with  her 
mincing  humbug — poof  !  naivete! — and  set  my  own  mother  against 
me?  Who  told  some  one — you  know  who — that  I  was  not  to 
be  trusted,  and  far  better  cast-off?  Who  stuffed  that  lacka- 
daisical idiot  of  a  Sukie  Monnerie  with  all  those  old  horrors? 
Who  warned  that  miserable  little  piece  of  deformity  that  I 
might  come — borrowing?  WHio  hoped  to  betray  me  by  sending 
an  envelope  through  the  post  packed  with  mousey  bits  of  paper? 

387 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Who  made  me  a  guy,  a  laughing-stock  and  poisoned Oh,  it's 

a  long  score,  Miss  M.  When  I  think  of  it  all,  what  I've  endured 
— well,  honestly  when  a  wasp  crawls  out  of  my  jam,  I  remind  my- 
self that  it's  stinged." 

The  light  smouldering  eyes  held  me  fast.  "You  mean,  I  sup- 
pose, Fanny,  that  you'd  just  kill  it,"  I  mumbled,  looking  up  into 
her  distorted  face.  "I  don't  think  I  should  much  mind  even 
that.  But  it's  no  use.  It  would  take  hours  to  answer  your 
questions.  You  have  only  put  them  your  own  way.  They  may 
sound  true.  But  in  your  heart  you  know  they  are  false.  Why 
should  you  bother  to  hurt  me?  You  know — you  know  how 
idiotically  I  loved  you." 

"Loved  me,  false,  kill,"  echoed  Fanny  scornfully,  with  a  leer 
which  transformed  her  beauty  into  a  mere  vulgar  grimace.  "Is 
there  any  end  to  the  deceits  of  the  little  gaby?  Do  you  really 
suppose  that  to  be  loved  is  a  new  experience  for  me;  that  I'm 
not  smeared  with  it  wherever  I  go;  that  I  care  a  snap  of  my 
fingers  whether  I'm  loved  or  not;  that  I  couldn't  win  through 
without  that?  Is  that  what  you  suppose?  Well,  then,  here's 
one  more  secret.  Open  your  ears.  I  am  going  to  marry  Percy 
Maudlen.  Yes,  that  weed  of  a  creature.  You  may  remember 
my  little  prophecy  when  he  brought  his  Aunt  Alice's  manikin 
some  lollipops.  Well,  the  grace  of  God  is  too  leisurely,  and 
since  you  and  I  are  both,  I  suppose,  of  the  same  sex,  I  tell 
you  I  care  no  more  for  him  than  that "  She  flung  the  nec- 
tarine stone  at  the  beehive.  "And  I  defy  you,  defy  you  to  utter  a 
word.  I  am  glad  I  was  born  what  I  am.  All  your  pretty 
little  triumphs,  first  to  last,  what  are  they? — accidents  and  in- 
sults. Isn't  half  the  world  kicking  down  the  faces  of  those 
beneath  them  on  the  ladder?  /  have  had  to  fight  for  a  place. 
And  I  tell  you  this :  I  am  going  to  teach  these  supercilious 
money-smelling  ladies  a  lesson.  I  am  going  to  climb  till  I 
can  sneer  down  on  them.  And  Mrs  Monnerie  is  going  to  help 
me.  She  doesn't  care  a  jot  for  God  or  man.  But  she  enjoys 
intelligence,  and  loves  a  fighter.     Is  that  candour?     Is  it  now?" 

"I  detest  Percy  Maudlen,"  I  replied  faintly.  "And  as  for 
sneering,  that  only  makes  another  wall.  Oh,  Fanny,  do  listen 
to  yourself,  to  what  you  are.  I  swear  I'm  not  the  sneak  you 
388 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

think  me.  I'd  help  you,  if  I  could,  to  my  last  breath.  Indeed, 
I  would.     Yes,  and  soon  I  can!* 

"Thank  you:  and  I'd  rather  suffocate  than  accept  your  help 
— now.  Listen  to  myself,  indeed!  That's  just  the  pious  hypo- 
crite all  over.  Well,  declarations  of  love  you  know  quite  enough 
about  for  your — for  your  age.  Now  you  shall  hear  one  of 
a  different  kind.  I  tell  you,  Midgetina,  I  hate  you:  I  can't 
endure  the  sight  or  sound  or  creep  or  thought  of  you  any  longer. 
Why?  Because  of  your  unspeakable  masquerade.  You  play 
the  pygmy ;  pygmy  you  are :  carried  about,  cosseted,  smirked 
at,  fattened  on  nightingales'  tongues — the  last,  though,  you'll 
ever  eat.  But  where  have  you  come  from?  What  are  you  in 
your  past — in  your  mind?  I  ask  you  that:  a  thing  more  every- 
where, more  thief-like,  more  detestable  than  a  conscience.  Look 
at  me,  as  we  sit  here  now.  /  am  the  monstrosity.  You  see 
it,  you  think  it,  you  hate  even  to  touch  me.  From  first  moment 
to  last  you  have  secretly  despised  me — me !  I'm  not  accusing 
you.  You  weren't  your  own  maker.  As  often  as  not  you 
don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  You  are  just  an  automaton. 
But  these  last  nights  I  have  lain  awake  and  thought  of  it  all. 
It  came  on  me  as  if  my  life  had  been  nothing  but  a  filthy, 
aimless  nightmare;  and  chiefly  because  of  yon.  I've  worked, 
I've  thought,  I've  contrived  and  forced  my  way.  Oh,  that 
house,  the  wranglings,  the  sermons.  Did  I  make  myself  what 
I  am.  ask  to  be  born?  No,  it's  all  a  devilish  plot.  And  I  say 
this,  that  while  things  are  as  they  are,  and  this  life  is  life,  and 
this  world  my  world.  I  refuse  to  be  watched  and  taunted  and 
goaded  and  defamed." 

Her  face  stooped  closer,  fascinating,  chilling  me  like  a  cold 
cloud  with  its  bright,  hunted,  malevolent  stare.  She  stretched 
out  a  hand  and  wrung  my  shoulder.  "Listen,  I  say.  Come  out 
of  that  trance !     I  loathe  you,  you  holy  imp.     You  haunt  me !" 

My  eyes  shut.  I  sat  shivering,  empty  of  self,  listening,  as 
if  lost  in  a  fog  in  a  place  desperately  strange  to  me;  and  only 
a  distant  sea  breaking '  and  chafing  on  its  stones  far  below. 
Then  once  more  I  became  conscious  of  the  steady  and  resolute 
droning  of  the  bees;  felt  the  breathing  of  actuality  on  my  hair, 
on   my   cheek.     My  eves   opened   on   a  garden   sucked   dry   of 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

colour  and  reality,  and  sought  her  out.  She  had  left  me,  was 
standing  a  few  paces  distant  now,  looking  back,  as  if  dazed, 
her  lips  pale,  her  eyes   dark-ringed. 

''Perhaps  you  didn't  quite  hear  all  that,  Midgetina.  You 
led  me  on.  You  force  things  out  of  me  till  I  am  sick.  But 
some  day,  when  you  are  as  desperate  as  I  have  been,  it  will 
come  back  to  you.  Then  you'll  know  what  it  is  to  be  human. 
But  there  can't  be  any  misunderstanding  left  now,  can  there?" 

I  shook  my  head.     "No,  Fanny.     I  shall  know  you  hate  me." 

"And  I   am   free?" 

What  could  she  mean?     I  nodded. 

She  turned,  pushed  up  her  parasol.  "What  a  talk!  But 
better  done  with." 

"Yes,  Fanny,"  said  I  obediently.     "Much  better  done  with." 

She  gave  me  an  odd  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 
"The  queer  thing  is,"  she  went  on,  "what  I  wanted  to  say  was 
something  quite,  quite  different.  To  give  you  a  friendly  word  of 
warning,  entirely  on  your  own  account.  .  .  .  You  have  a  rival, 
Midgetina." 

The  words  glided  away  into  silence.  The  doves  crooned  on 
the  housetop.  The  sky  was  empty  above  the  distant  hills.  I 
did  not  stir,  and  am  thankful  I  had  the  cowardice  to  ask  no 
questions. 

"Her  name  is  Angelique.  She  lives  in  a  Castle  in  Spain" ; 
sighed  the  calm,  silky  voice,  with  the  odd  break  or  rasp  in  it  I 
knew  so  well.  "Oh,  I  agree  a  circus-rider  is  nothing  better  than 
a  mongrel,  a  pariah,  worse  probably.  Yet  this  one  has  her 
little  advantages.  As  Midgets  go,  she  beats  you  by  at  least 
four  inches,  and  rides,  sings,  dances,  tells  fortunes.  Quite  a 
little  Woman  of  the  World.  The  only  really  troublesome  thing 
about  it  is  that  she  makes  you  jiltable,  my  dear.  They  are  so 
very  seductive,  these  flounced  up,  painted  things.  No  principle ! 
And,  oh,  my  dear;  all  this  just  as  dear  Mrs  Monnerie  has  set 
her  heart  on  finding  her  Queen  Bee  a  nice  little  adequate  drone 
for  a  husband !" 

It  was  her  last  taunt.  It  was  over.  I  had  heard  the  worst. 
The  arrow  I  had  been  waiting  for  had  sprung  true  to  its  mark. 
Its  barb  was  sticking  there  in  my  side.  And  yet,  as  I  mutely 
looked  up  at  her,  I  knew  there  was  a  word  between  us  which 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

neither  could  utter.  The  empty  air  had  swallowed  up  the 
sound  of  our  voices.  Its  enormous  looking-glass  remained  placid 
and  indifferent.  It  was  as  if  all  that  we  had  said,  or,  for 
that  matter,  suffered,  was  of  no  account,  simply  because  we 
were  not  alone.  For  the  first  instant  in  the  intimacy  of  my 
love  and  hatred,  Fanny  seemed  to  be  just  any  young  woman 
standing  there,  spiteful,  meaningless.  The  virtue  had  gone  out 
of  her.  She  made  up  her  mouth,  glanced  uneasily  over  her 
shoulder  and  turned  away. 

We  were  never  again  to  be  alone  together,  except  in  remem- 
brance. 

I  sat  on  in  the  garden  till  the  last  thin  ray  of  sunlight  was 
gone.  Then,  in  dread  that  my  enemy  might  be  looking  down 
from  the  windows  of  the  house,  I  slipped  and  shuffled  from 
bush  to  bush  in  the  dusk,  and  so  at  last  made  my  way  into  the 
house,  and  climbed  the  dark  polished  staircase.  As.  stealthily, 
I  passed  a  bedroom  door  ajar,  my  look  pierced  through  the 
crevice.  It  was  a  long,  stretching,  shallow  room,  and  at  the 
end  of  it,  in  the  crystal  quiet,  stood  Fanny,  her  arms  laid  on 
the  chimney-piece,  her  shoulder  blades  sticking  out  of  her  muslin 
gown,  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands. 

Why  did  I  not  venture  in  to  speak  to  her  ?  I  had  never 
seen  a  figure  so  desolate  and  forsaken.  Could  tilings  ever  be 
so  far  gone  as  to  say  No  to  that?  I  hesitated;  turned  away: 
she  would  think  I  had  come  only  to  beg  for  mercy. 

For  hours  I  sat  dully  brooding.  What  a  trap  I  was  in. 
In  my  rummagings  in  the  Monnerie  library  I  had  once  chanced 
on  a  few  yellow  cardboard-covered  novels  tucked  away  in  a 
cupboard,  and  had  paddled  in  one  or  two  of  them.  Now  I 
realized  that  my  life  also  was  nothing  but  "a  Shocker."  So  people 
actually  suffered  and  endured  the  horrible  things  written  about 
in   cheap,   common   books. 

One  by  one  I  faced  Fanny's  charges  in  my  mind.  None  was 
true,  yet  none  was  wholly  false.  And  none  was  of  any  con- 
sequence beside  the  fact  that  she  execrated  the  very  self  in 
me  of  which  I  could  not  be  conscious.  And  what  would  she 
do?  What  did  all  those  covert  threats  and  insinuations  mean? 
A  "husband" — why  had  that  such  a  dreadful  power  to  wound  me? 

39i 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  heard  my  teeth  begin  to  chatter  again.  There  was  no  defence, 
no  refuge  anywhere.  If  I  could  get  no  quiet,  I  should  go  mad. 
I  looked  up  from  my  stool.  It  was  dark.  It  was  a  scene  made 
for  me.  I  could  watch  the  miserable  little  occupant  of  its  stage 
roving  to  and  fro  like  one  of  my  showman's  cowed,  mangy  beasts. 

The  thought  of  the  day  still  ahead  of  me,  through  which  I 
must  somehow  press  on,  keep  alive,  half  stupefied  me  with 
dread.  We  can  shut  our  eyes  and  our  mouths  and  our  hearts; 
why  cannot  we  stop  thinking?  The  awful  passive  order  of  life: 
its  mechanicalness.  All  that  I  could  see  was  the  blank  white 
face  of  its  clock — but  no  more  of  the  wheels  than  of  the  Winder. 
No  haste,  no  intervention,  no  stretching-out  beyond  one's  finger 
tips.  So  the  world  wore  away;  life  decayed;  the  dunghill 
smoked.  Mrs  Monnerie  there;  stepping  into  her  brougham,  ebony 
cane  in  hand,  Marvell  at  her  elbow ;  Mrs  Bowater  languishing 
on  board  ship,  limp  head  in  stiff  frilling;  Sir  Walter  dumb;  the 
showman  cursing  his  wretched  men;  the  bills  being  posted,  the 
implacable  future  mutely  yawning,  the  past  unutterable.  Every- 
thing in  its  orbit.     Was  there  no  help,  no  refuge? 

The  door  opened  and  the  skimpy  little  country  girl  who  waited 
on  me  in  Fleming's  absence,  brought  in  my  supper.  She  bobbed 
me  a  scared  curtsey,  and  withdrew.  Then  she,  too,  had  been 
poisoned  against  me.  I  flung  myself  down  on  the  floor,  crush- 
ing my  hands  against  my  ears.  Yet,  through  all  this  dazed 
helplessness,  in  one  resolve  I  never  faltered.  I  would  keep  my 
word  to  the  showman,  and  this  night  that  was  now  in  my  room 
should  be  the  last  I  would  spend  alive  in  Monk's  House.  Fanny 
must  do  her  worst.  Thoughts  of  her,  of  my  unhappy  love  and 
of  her  cruelty,  could  bring  no  good.  Yet  I  thought  of  her 
no  less.  Her  very  presence  in  the  house  lurked  in  the  air,  in 
the  silence,  like  an  apparition's. 

Still  stretched  on  the  floor,  I  woke  to  find  the  September 
constellations  faintly  silvering  the  pale  blue  crystal  of  the  North- 
ern Lights;  and  the  earth  sighing  as  if  for  refuge  from  the 
rising  moon.  My  fears  and  troubles  had  fallen  to  rest  beneath 
my  dreams,  and  I  prepared  myself  for  the  morrow's  flight. 


392 


Chapter  Forty-Nine 


WHEN  next  Fanny  and  I  met,  it  was  in  the  cool  grey-green 
summery  drawing-room  at  Monk's  House,  and  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie  and  Susan  shared  tea  with  us.  One  covert  glance 
at  Mrs  Monnerie's  face  had  reassured  me.  That  strange  mask 
was  as  vigilant  and  secretive,  but  as  serene,  as  when  it  had  first 
smiled  on  me  in  the  mauves  and  gildings  of  Brunswick  House. 
She  had  set  her  world  right  again  and  was  at  peace  with  mankind. 
As  complacently  as  ever  she  stretched  me  out  her  finger.  She 
had  not  even  taken  the  trouble  to  forgive  me  for  my  little  "scene" ; 
had  let  it  perish  of  its  own  insignificance.  Oh,  I  thought,  if  I 
could  be  as  life-size  as  that !  I  did  not  learn  till  many  days 
afterwards,  however,  that  she  had  had  news  of  me  from  France. 
Good  news,  which  Sir  \V.,  trusting  in  my  patience  and  common- 
sense,  had  kept  back  from  me  until  he  could  deliver  it  in  person 
and  we  could  enjoy  it  together. 

Only  one  topic  of  conversation  was  ours  that  afternoon — 
that  "amazing  Prodigy  of  Nature,"  the  Spanish  Princess;  Mrs 
Monnerie's  one  regret  that  she  herself  had  not  discovered  a  star 
of  such  ineffably  minute  magnitude.  Yet  her  teasing  and  sar- 
casm were  so  nimble  and  good-humoured ;  she  insinuated  so 
pleasantly  her  little  drolleries  and  innuendoes ;  that  even  if 
Miss  M.  had  had  true  cause  for  envy  and  malice,  she  could  have 
taken  no  offence.     Far  from  it. 

I  looked  out  of  the  long  open  windows  at  the  dipping,  flit- 
tering wagtails  on  the  lawn;  shrugged  my  shoulders;  made 
little  mouths  at  her  with  every  appearance  of  wounded  vanity. 
Did  she  really  think,  I  inquired  earnestly,  that  that  shameless 
creature  was  as  lovely  as  the  showman's  bills  made  her  out  to 
be?  Mightn't  it  all  be  a  cheat,  a  trick?  Didn't  they  always 
exaggerate — just  to  make  money?  The  more  jovially  she  en- 
joyed my  discomfiture,  nodding  her  head,  swaying  in  her  chair, 
the  more  I  enjoyed  my   duplicity.     The  real  danger  was  that 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I   should  be  a  little  too  clever,   over-act  my  part,   and  arouse 
her  suspicions. 

"Ah,  you  little  know,  you  little  know,"  I  muttered  to  myself, 
sharply  conscious  the  while  of  the  still,  threatening  presence  of 
Fanny.  But  she  meant  to  let  me  go — that  was  enough.  It  was 
to  be  good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish.  There  was  nothing  to 
fear  from  her — yet.  Her  eyes  lightly  dwelling  on  me  over  her 
Chelsea  teacup,  she  sat  drinking  us  in.  Well,  she  should  never 
taunt  me  with  not  having  played  up  to  her  conception  of  me. 

"Well,  well,"  Mrs  Monnerie  concluded,  "all  it  means,  my 
dear,  is  that  you  are  not  quite  such  a  rarity  as  we  supposed. 
Who  is  ?  There's  nothing  unique  in  this  old  world ;  though  char- 
acter, even  bad  character,  never  fails  to  make  its  mark.  Ask  Mr 
Pellew." 

"But,  surely,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  said  I,  "it  isn't  character  to  sell 
yourself  at  twopence  a  look." 

"Mere  scruples,  Poppet,"  she  retorted.  "Think  of  it.  If  only 
you  could  have  pocketed  that  pretty  little  fastidiousness  of 
yours,  the  newspapers  would  now  be  ringing  with  your  fame. 
And  the  fortune!  You  are  too  pernickety.  Aren't  we  all  of 
us  on  show?  And  aren't  nine  out  of  ten  of  us  striving  to  be 
more  on  show  than  we  are  entitled  to  be?  If  man's  first  dis- 
obedience and  the  rest  of  it  doesn't  mean  that,  then  what,  I  ask 
you,  Mademoiselle  Bas  Bleu,  was  the  sour  old  Puritan  so  con- 
cerned about?     Assist  me,  Susan,  if  I  stumble." 

"I  wish  I  could,  Aunt  Alice,"  said  Susan  sweetly,  cutting  the 
cake.     "You  must  ask  Miss  Bowater." 

"Please,   Miss   Monnerie,"   drawled   Fanny. 

"Whether  or  not,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie  crisply,  "I  beseech  you, 
children,  don't  quarrel  about  it.  There  is  our  beloved  Sovereign 
on  her  throne;  and  there  the  last  innocent  little  victim  in  its 
cradle;  and  there's  the  old  sun  waggishly  illuminating  the  whole 
creaking  stage.  Blind  beggar  and  dog,  Toby,  artists,  authors, 
parsons,  statesmen — heart  and  everything  else,  or  everything  else 
but  heart,  on  sleeve — and  all  on  show — every  one  of  them — at 
something  a  look.  No,  my  dear,  there's  only  one  private  life, 
the  next :  and,  according  to  some  accounts,  that  will  be  more  public 
than  ever.  And  so  twirls  the  Merry-go-Round." 
394 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Her  voice  relapsed,  as  it  were,  into  herself  again,  and  she 
drew  in  her  lips.  She  looked  about  her  as  if  in  faint  surprise; 
and  in  returning  to  its  usual  expression,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
her  countenance  had  paused  an  instant  in  an  exceedingly  melan- 
choly condition.  Perhaps  she  had  caught  the  glint  of  sympathy  in 
my  eye. 

"But  isn't  that  all  choice,  Mrs  Monnerie?"  I  leaned  forward 
to  ask.  "And  aren't  some  people  what  one  might  call  con- 
spicuous, simply  because  they  are  really  and  truly,  as  it  were, 
superior  to  other  people?     I  don't  mean  better — just  superior." 

"I  think,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  murmured  Fanny  deprecatingly, 
"she's  referring  to  that  'ad  infinitum'  jingle — about  the  fleas, 
you  know.     Or  was  it  Dr  Watts,  Midgetina?" 

"Never  mind  about  Dr  Watts,"  said  Mrs  Monnerie  flatly. 
"The  point  from  which  we  have  strayed,  my  dear,  is  that  even 
if  you  were  not  born  great,  you  were  born  exquisite;  and  now 

here's  this  Angelique  rigmarole "     Her  face  creased  up  into 

its  old  good-humoured  f acetiousness :  "Was  it  three  inches,  Miss 
Bowater  ?" 

"Four,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  lipped  Fanny  suavely. 

"Four!  pooh!  Still,  that's  what  they  say;  half  a  head  or 
more,  my  dear,  more  exquisite !  Perfect  nonsense,  of  course. 
It's  physically  impossible.  These  Radical  newspapers !  And  the 
absinthe,  too."  Her  small  black-brown  eyes  roamed  round  a 
little  emptily.  Absinthe!  was  that  a  Fanny  story?  "But  there, 
my  child,"  she  added  easily,  "you  shall  see  for  yourself.  We 
dine  with  the  Padgwick-Steggals ;  and  then  go  on  together. 
So  that's  settled.  It  will  be  my  first  travelling  circus  since  I 
was  a  child.  Most  amusing:  if  the  lion  doesn't  get  out,  and 
there's  none  of  those  horrible  accidents  on  the  trapeze  one  goes 
in  hope  to  see.  By  the  way,  Miss  Bowater,  your  letter  was 
posted?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Mrs  Monnerie — this  afternoon;  but,  as  you  know. 
I  was  a  little  doubtful  about  the  address."  She  hastened  to 
pass  me  a  plate  of  button-sized  ratafias;  and  Mrs  Monnerie 
slowly  turned  a  smiling  but  not  quite  ingenuous  face  aside. 

"What  a  curious  experience  the  circus  will  be  for  you,  Mid- 
getina," Fanny  was  murmuring  softly,  glancing  back  over  her 
shoulder  towards  the  tea-table.     "Personally,  I  believe  the  Sig- 

395 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

norma  Angelique  and  the  rest  of  it  is  only  one  of  those  horrible 
twisted  up  prodigies  with  all  the  bones  out  of  place.  Mightn't 
it,  Mrs  Monnerie,  be  a  sort  of  shock,  you  know,  for  Miss  M.? 
She's  still  a  little  pale  and  peaky." 

"She  shall  come,  I  say,  and  see  for  herself,"  replied  Mrs 
Monnerie   petulantly. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs  Monnerie  gazed  vacantly  at  the 
tiers  of  hot-house  flowers  that  decorated  the  window-recess. 
Susan  sate  with  a  little  forked  frown  between  her  brows.  She 
never  seemed  to  derive  the  least  enjoyment  from  this  amiable, 
harmless  midget-baiting.  Not  at  any  rate  one  hundredth  part 
as  much  as  I  did.  Fanny  set  Plum  begging  for  yet  another 
ratafia.  And  then,  after  a  long,  deep  breath,  my  skin  all  "goose- 
flesh,"  I  looked  straight  across  at  my  old  friend. 

"I  don't  think,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  I  said,  "if  you  don't  mind— I 
don't  think  I  really  wish  to  go." 

As  if  Joshua  had  spoken,  the  world  stood  still. 

Mrs  Monnerie  slowly  turned  her  head.     "Another  headache?" 

"No,   I'm  perfectly   well,    thank  you.     But,    whatever   I   may 

have  said,  I  don't  approve  of  that  poor  creature  showing  herself 

for — for  money.     She   is   selling   herself.     It  must  be   because 

there's  no  other  way  out." 

Finger  and  thumb  outstretched  above  the  cringing  little  dog, 
Fanny  was  steadily  watching  me.  With  a  jerk  of  my  whole  body 
I  turned  on  her.  "You  agreed  with  me,  Fanny,  didn't  you,  in 
the   garden    yesterday   afternoon?" 

Placidly  drooped  her  lids:  "Trust,  Plum,  trust!" 
"What !"  croaked  Mrs  Monnerie,  "you,  Miss  Bowater  !  Guilty 
of  that  silly  punctilio !  She  was  merely  humouring  you,  child. 
It  will  be  a  most  valuable  experience.  You  shall  be  perfectly 
protected.  Pride,  eh?  Or  is  it  jealousy?  Now  what  would 
you  say  if  I  promise  to  try  and  ransom  the  poor  creature? — 
buy  her  out?  pension  her  off?  Would  that  be  a  nice  charitable 
little  thing  to  do?  She  might  make  you  quite  a  pleasant 
companion." 

"\li,  Mrs  Monnerie,  please  let  me  buy  her  out.  Let  me  be 
the  intermediary !"  I  found  myself,  hands  clasped  in  lap,  yearn- 
ingly stooping  towards  her,  just  like  a  passionate  young  lady  in  a 
novel. 

396 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

She  replied  ominously,  knitting  her  thick,  dark  eyebrows.  "And 
how's  that  to  be  done,  pray,  if  you  sulk  here  at  home?" 

"I  think.  Aunt  Alice,  it's  an  excellent  plan,"  cried  Susan, 
"much,  much  more  considerate.  She  could  write.  Think  of  all 
those  horrible  people!  The  poor  thing  may  have  been  kid- 
napped,  forced  to  do  her  silly  tricks  like  one  of  those  wretched, 
little  barbered-up  French  poodles.  Anyhow,  I  don't  suppose  she's 
there — or  anywhere  else,  for  that  matter — for  fun!" 

Even  Susan's  sympathy  had  its  sting. 

"Thank  you,  Susan,"  was  Mrs  Monnerie's  acid  retort.  "Your 
delicate  soul  can  always  be  counted  on.  But  advice,  my  child, 
is  much  the  more  valuable  when  asked  for." 

"Of  course  I  mustn't  interfere,  Mrs  Monnerie,"  interposed 
Fanny  sweetly;  "but  wouldn't  it  perhaps  be  as  well  for  you  to 
see  the  poor  thing  first?  She  mayn't  be  quite — quite  a  proper 
kind  of  person,  may  she?  At  least  that's  what  the  newspapers 
seem  to  suggest.  Not,  of  course,  that  Miss  M.  wouldn't  soon 
teach  her  better  manners." 

Mrs  Monnerie's  head  wagged  gently  in  time  to  her  shoe. 
"H'm.  There's  something  in  that,  Miss  Worldly-Wise.  Reports 
don't  seem  to  flatter  her.  But  still,  I  like  my  own  way  best. 
Poppet  must  come  and  see.  After  all,  she  should  be  the  better 
judge." 

Never  before  had  Mrs  Monnerie  so  closely  resembled  a  puffed- 
out  tawny  owl. 

I  looked  at  her  fixedly:  shook  my  head.  "No:  no  judge," 
I  s] fluttered.     "I'm  sorry,  Mrs  Monnerie,  but  I  won't  go." 

There  was  no  misdoubting  her  anger  now.  The  brows  forked. 
The  loose-skinned  hands  twitched.  She  lifted  herself  in  her 
chair,  "Won't,"  she  said.  "You  vex  me,  child.  And  pray  don't 
wriggle  at  me  in  that  hysterical  fashion.  You  are  beside  your- 
self; trembling  like  a  mouse.  You  have  been  mooning  alone 
too  much,  I  can  see.  Run  away  and  nurse  that  silly  head,  and 
at  the  same  time  thank  heaven  that  you  have  more  time  and  less 
need  of  the  luxury  than  some  one  else  we  know  of.  It  may  be 
a  low  life,  but  it  needs  courage.     I'll  say  that  for  her." 

She  swept  her  hands  to  her  knees  over  her  silken  lap,  and 
turned  upon  Susan. 

397 


Wanderslore 


Chapter  Fifty 


I  HAD  been  dismissed.  But  Mrs  Monnerie's  anger  had  a  curi- 
ous potency.  For  a  moment  I  could  scarcely  see  out  of  my 
eyes,  and  the  floor  swayed  under  me  as  I  scrambled  down 
from  my  chair.  It  took  me  at  least  a  minute,  even  with  the  help 
of  a  stool,  to  open  the  door. 

Like  a  naughty  child  I  had  been  put  in  the  corner  and  then 
sent  to  bed.  Good.  There  could  be  no  going  back  now.  I 
could  count  on  Fanny — the  one  thing  she  asked  was  to  be  free 
of  me.  As  for  Mrs  Monnerie,  her  flushed  and  sullen  countenance 
convinced  me  that  my  respite  would  be  undisturbed.  There 
was  only  impulsive  Susan  to  think  of.  And  as  if  in  answer, 
there  came  a  faint  tap,  and  the  door  softly  opened  to  admit 
her  gentle  head  and   shoulders. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  she  whispered  across  at  me.  "I'm  so  sorry; 
and  so  helpless.  Don't  take  it  too  hardly.  I  have  been  having 
my  turn,  too." 

I  twisted  round,  wet  face  and  hands,  as  I  stood  stooping  over 
my  washbowl  on  its  stool,  scrutinized  her  speechlessly,  and 
shook  a  dizzy  head.  The  door  shut.  Dearest  Susan :  as  I 
think  of  her  I  seem  to  see  one  of  those  tiny,  tiny  "building 
rotifers"  collecting  out  of  reality  its  exquisite  house.  Grace, 
courage,  loving-kindness.  If  I  had  been  the  merest  Miss  Hop-o'- 
my-Thumb,  I  should  still  have  been  the  coarsest  little  monster  by 
comparison. 

Scarce  three  safe  hours  remained  to  me;  I  must  be  off  at 
once.  To  go  looking  for  Adam  was  out  of  the  question.  Even 
if  I  could  find  him,  I  dared  not  risk  him.  Would  it  be  possible 
for  me  to  cover  my  six  miles  or  more  across  undiscovered  country 
in  a  hundred  and  eighty  minutes  ?  In  my  Bowater  days,  perhaps ; 
but  there  had  been  months  of  idle,  fatted,  indoor  No.  2  in  between. 
A  last  forlorn  dishonest  project,  banished  already  more  than  once 
from  my  mind,  again  thrust  itself  up — to  creep  off  to  the  nearest 

401 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Post  Office  and  with  one  of  my  crown  pieces  for  a  telegram,  cast 
myself  on  the  generosity  of  Mr  Anon.  No,  no :  I  couldn't  cheat 
myself  like  that. 

I  was  ready.  I  pinned  to  the  carpet  a  message  for  Adam,  in 
case  he  should  dare  to  be  faithful  to  me — just  four  scribbled 
uncompromising  words :  "The  Bird  is  flown."  With  eyes  fixed 
on  a  starry  knot  of  wood  at  the  threshold,  I  stood  for  a  while, 
with  head  bent,  listening  at  my  door.  I  might  have  been  pausing 
between  two  worlds.  The  house  was  quiet.  No  voice  cried 
"Stay."  I  bowed  solemnly  to  the  gentle,  silent  room  behind  me, 
and,  with  a  prayer  between  my  teeth,  bundle  in  hand,  stepped 
out  into  the  future. 

Unchallenged,  unobserved,  I  slipped  along  the  blue-carpeted 
corridor,  down  the  wide  stairs  and  out  of  the  porch.  After 
dodging  from  tree  to  tree,  from  shrub  to  shrub,  along  the 
meandering  drive,  I  turned  off,  and,  skirting  the  lodge  through 
a  seeding  forest  of  weeds  and  grasses,  squeezed  through  the 
railings  and  was  in  the  lane.  From  my  map  of  Kent  I  had 
traced  out  a  rough  little  sketch  of  the  route  I  must  follow. 
With  the  sun  on  my  left  hand  I  set  off  almost  due  north.  How 
still  the  world  was.  In  that  silk-blue  sky  with  its  placid,  moun- 
tainous clouds  there  was  no  heed  of  human  doings. 

The  shoes  I  had  chosen  were  good  sound  Bowaters,  and  as 
I  trudged  on  my  spirits  rose  high.  I  breathed  in  deep  draughts 
of  the  sweet  September  air.  Thomasina  of  Bedlam  had  been 
"summoned  to  tourney."  "The  wide  world's  end  .  .  .  No 
journey !"  In  sober  fact,  it  was  a  sorry  little  wretch  of  a  young 
female,  scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  that  went  panting  along  in  the 
dust  and  stones,  scrambling  into  cover  of  ditch  and  hedge  at  every 
sound  or  sight  of  life.  I  look  at  her  now,  and  smile.  Poor  thing; 
it  needed  at  any  rate  a  pinch  of  "courage." 

Cottages  came  into  sight.  At  an  open  door  I  heard  the  clatter 
of  crockery,  and  a  woman  scolding  a  child.  Two  gates  beyond, 
motionless  as  a  block  of  wood,  an  old,  old  man  stood  leaning  out 
of  his  garden  of  dahlias  and  tarnishing  golden-rod.  In  an 
instant  in  the  dumb  dust  I  was  under  his  nose.  His  clay  pipe 
shattered  on  the  stone.  Like  a  wagtail  I  flitted  and  scampered 
all  in  a  breath.  That  little  danger  was  safely  over;  but  it  was 
not  ruminating  old  gentlemen  who  caused  me  apprehension. 
Youthful  Adam  Waggetts  were  my  dread. 
402 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

At  the  foot  of  the  slope  there  came  a  stile,  and  a  footpath 
winding  off  \\V.  but  still  curving  in  my  direction.  I  hesitated. 
Any  risk  seemed  better  than  the  hedged-in  publicity  of  this 
dusty  lane.  Ducking  under  the  stile,  I  climbed  the  hill  and 
presently  found  myself  clambering  across  an  immense  hum- 
mocky  field,  part  stubble,  part  fresh  plough.  Then  a  meadow  and 
cows.  Then  once  more  downhill,  a  drowsy  farm-yard,  with  its 
stacks  and  calves  and  chickens,  to  the  left,  and  at  bottom  of 
the  slope  a  filthy  quagmire  where  an  immense  sow  wallowed, 
giving  suck  to  her  squalling  piglets.  Her  glinting,  amorous 
eyes  took  me  in.  Stone  on  to  stone,  I  skipped  across  a  brook, 
dowsing  one  leg  to  the  thigh  in  its  bubbling  water.  It  was 
balm  in  Gilead,  for  I  was  in  a  perfect  fume  of  heat,  and  my  lungs 
were  panting  like  bellows. 

I  sat  down  for  a  breathing  space  on  the  sunset  side  of  a  hay- 
stack. In  the  shade  of  the  hazels,  on  the  verge  of  the  green 
descending  field,  rabbits  were  feeding  and  playing.  And  I  began 
to  think.  Supposing  I  did  reach  the  new  pitch  in  time :  the 
wreck  I  should  be.  Then  Mrs  Monnerie — and  Fanny:  my 
thoughts  skimmed  hastily  on.  What  then?  As  soon  as  my 
showman  had  paid  me  I  must  creep  away  by  myself  out  of  sight 
at  once;  that  was  certain.  I  must  tell  him  that  Adam  was 
waiting  for  me.  And  then?  Well,  after  a  few  hours'  rest  in 
some  shed  or  under  a  haystack,  somehow  or  other  I  should  have 
to  find  out  the  way,  and  press  on  to  Wanderslore.  There'd  be 
a  full  moon.  That  would  be  a  comfort.  I  knew  the  night. 
Once  safely  there,  with  money  in  my  pocket,  I  could  with  a 
perfectly  free  conscience  ask  Mr  Anon  to  find  me  a  lodging, 
perhaps  not  very  far  from  his  own.  A  laughable  situation. 
But  we  would  be  the  best  of  friends;  now  that  all  that — that 
nonsense  was  over.  A  deep  sigh,  drawn,  as  it  were,  from  the 
depths  of  my  bowels,  rose  up  and  subsided.  What  a  strange 
thing  that  one  must  fall  in  love,  couldn't  jump  into  it.  And  then? 
Well,  Mrs  Bowater  would  soon  be  home,  and  perhaps  Sir  W'alter 
had  circumvented  the  Harrises.  Suppose  not.  Well,  even  at 
the  very  worst,  at  say  ten,  say  even  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  ray 
thirteen  pounds  would  last  me  for  months  and  months.  .  .  . 
Say  four. 

And  as  I  said  "four,"  a  gate  clacked-to  not  many  yards  distant 
and   a   slow    footfall   sounded.     Fortunately    for   me,    the    path 

403 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  had  been  following  skirted  the  other  side  of  my  haystack. 
Gathering  myself  close  under  the  hay,  I  peeped  out.  A  tall, 
spare  man,  in  a  low,  peaked  cap  and  leather  leggings,  came 
cautiously  swinging  along.  His  face  was  long,  lean,  severe. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  steady  gaze  as  if  he  were  a  human  autom- 
aton stalking  on.  And  the  black  barrel  of  a  gun  sloped  down 
from  under  his  arm.  I  drew  in  closer.  His  footsteps  passed; 
died  away;  the  evening  breeze  blew  chill.  A  few  moments 
afterwards  a  shattering  report  came  echoing  on  from  wood  to 
wood,  seeming  to  knock  on  my  very  breastbone.  This  was  no 
place  for  me.  With  one  scared  glance  at  the  huddling  wood, 
I  took  to  my  heels,  nor  paused  until  the  path  through  the 
spinney  became  so  rutted  that  I  was  compelled  to  pick  my  way. 

A  cold  gloom  had  closed  in  on  my  mind.  I  cursed  clod-hop- 
ping shoes  and  bundle;  envied  the  dead  rabbit  that  had  danced 
its  airy  dance  and  was  done.  As  likely  as  not,  I  had  already 
lost  my  way.  And  I  plodded  on  along  the  stony  paths,  pausing 
only  to  quench  my  thirst  with  the  rough  juice  of  the  black- 
berries that  straggled  at  the  wayside.  I  wonder  if  the  "Knight  of 
Furious  Fancies"  was  as  volatile  ! 

But  yet  another  shock  was  awaiting  me.  The  footpath  dipped, 
there  came  a  hedge  and  another  stile,  and  I  scuffled  down  the 
bank  into  the  very  lane  which  I  had  left  more  than  an  hour  ago. 
I  knew  that  white  house  on  the  hill;  had  seen  it  with  Adam 
under  the  moon.  It  stood  not  much  more  than  a  mile  from  the 
lodge  gates.  My  short  cut  had  been  a  detour;  and  now  the  sun 
was  down. 

I  drew  back  and  examined  my  scribble  of  map.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.  Henceforward  I  must  keep  to  the  road.  My 
thick  shoes  beat  up  the  dust,  one  of  my  heels  had  blistered,  my 
bundle  grew  heavier  with  every  step.  But  fear  had  left  me. 
Some  other  master  cracked  his  whip  at  me  as  I  shambled  on, 
as  doggedly  and  devil-may-care  as  a  tramp. 

I  was  stooping  in  the  wayside  ditch  in  one  more  attempt  to  ease 
my  foot,  when  once  again  I  heard  hoofs  approaching.  With  head 
pushed  between  the  dusty  tussocks,  I  stared  along  the  flat,  white 
road.  A  small  and  seemingly  empty  cart  was  bowling  along  in  the 
dust.  As  it  drew  near,  my  ears  began  to  sing,  my  heart  stood  still. 
I  knew  that  battered  cart,  that  rough-haired,  thick-legged  pony. 
404 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Suddenly  I  craned  up  in  horror,  for  it  seemed  that  the  face  peering 
low  over  the  splashboard  in  my  direction  was  that  of  a  death's- 
head,  grinning  at  me  out  of  its  gloom.  Then  with  a  cry  of  joy 
I  was  up  and  out  into  the  road.     "Hi,  hi!"  I  screamed  up  at  him. 

It  was  Mr  Anon.  The  pony  was  reined  hack  on  to  its  haunches; 
the  cart  stood  Mill.  And  my  stranger  and  I  were  incredu- 
lously gazing  at  one  another  as  if  across  eternity,  as  if  all  the  world 
beside  were  a  dream  that  asked  no  awakening. 

!  laif  dragged  and  half  lifted  into  the  cart,  by  what  signs  I  could, 
lor  speech  was  impossible,  I  bade  him  turn  hack.  It  unmanned 
me  to  see  the  quiet  and  love  in  his  face.  Without  a  word  he 
wheeled  the  rearing  pony  round  under  the  elm-boughs,  and  for 
many  minutes  we  swung  on  together  at  an  ungainly  gallop,  sway- 
ing from  this  side  to  that,  the  astonishment  of  every  wayfarer  we 
met  or  overtook  on  our  way.  At  length  he  turned  into  a  grass- 
track  under  a  rusting  hedge  festooned  with  woodbine  and  feathery 
travellers'  joy;  and  we  smiled  at  one  another  as  if  in  all  history 
there  had  never  been  anything  quite  so  strange  as  this. 

"You  are  ill,"  he  said.  "Oh,  my  dear,  what  have  they  done  to 
you?" 

I  denied  it  emphatically,  wiping  my  cheeks  and  forehead  with 
the  hem  of  my  skirt — for  my  handkerchief  was  stuffed  into  my 
shoe.  "Look  at  me!"  I  smiled  up  at  him,  confident  and  happy. 
Was  my  face  lying  ahout  me?  Oh,  I  knew  what  a  dreadful  object 
I  must  be,  but  then,  "I've  been  tramping  for  hours  and  hours  in 
the  dust;  and  why! — haven't  you  come  to  meet  me;  to  give  me  a 
lift?' 

Wrhat  foolish  speeches  makes  a  happy  heart.  Indeed  Mr  Anon 
had  come  to  meet  me,  but  not  exactly  there  and  then.  He  fetched 
out  of  his  pocket  the  minute  note  that  had  summoned  him.  Here 
it  is,  still  faintly  scented  : — 

'Airs  Monnerie  sends  her  compliments,  and  would  Miss  M.'s 
friend  very  kindly  call  at  Monk's  House,  Croomham,  at  three  o'clock 
on  Friday  afternoon.  Mrs  Monnerie  is  anxious  about  Miss  M.*s 
health." 

Oh,  Fanny,  Fanny!  Precisely  how  far  she  had  taken  Mrs  Mon- 
nerie's  name  in  vain  in  this  letter  I  have  never  inquired.  And  now, 
I  suppose,  Mrs  Percy  Maudlen  would  not  trouble  to  tell  me.     But 

405 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

I  can  vow  that  in  spite  of  the  grime  on  my  face  the  happiest  smile 
shone  through  as  I  stuffed  it  into  my  bodice.  So  this  was  all  that 
her  harrowing  "husband"  had  come  to — a  summoning  of  friend  to 
friend.  If  every  little  malicious  plot  ended  like  this,  what  a 
paradise  the  world  would  be.  All  tiredness  passed  away,  though 
perhaps  it  continued  to  effervesce  in  my  head  a  little.  It  seemed 
that  I  had  been  climbing  on  and  on ;  and  now  suddenly  the  mist  had 
vanished,  and  mountain  and  snow  lay  spread  out  around  me  in 
eternal  peace  and  solitude.  If  Susan  Monnerie's  was  my  first 
stranger's  kiss,  Mr  Anon's  were  my  quietest  tears. 

His  crazy  cart  seemed  more  magical  than  all  the  carpets  of 
Arabia.  I  poured  out  my  story — though  not  quite  to  its  dregs. 
"This  very  afternoon,"  I  told  him,  "I  was  writing  to  you — in 
my  mind.  And  you  see,  you  have  come."  The  shaggy  pony 
tugged  at  the  coarse  grass.  I  could  hear  the  trickling  sands  in  the 
great  hour  glass,  and  chattered  on  in  vain  hope  to  hold  them  back. 

"You  are  not  listening,  only  watching,"  I  blamed  him. 

His  lips  moved ;  he  glanced  away.  Yet  I  had  already  foreseen 
the  conflict  awaiting  me.  And  all  his  arguments  and  entreaties 
that  I  should  throw  over  the  showman,  and  drive  straight  on  with 
him  into  the  gathering  evening  towards  Wanderslore,  were  in  vain. 

"Look,"  he  said,  as  if  for  straw  to  break  the  camel's  back,  and 
drew  out  by  its  ribbon  my  Bowater  latchkey. 

"No,"  said  I,  "not  even  that.  I  sleep  out  to-night."  And 
surely,  surely  I  kept  repeating,  he  must  understand.  How  could 
I  possibly  be  at  rest  with  a  broken  promise?  What  cared  I  now 
for  what  was  past  and  gone?  Think  what  a  joy,  what  sheer  fun 
it  would  be  to  face  Mrs  Monnerie  for  the  last  time,  and  she  un- 
aware of  it!  Nothing,  nothing  could  amuse  her  more  when  she 
hears  of  it.  He  should  come  and  see;  hear  the  crowd  yell.  He 
mustn't  be  so  solemn  about  things.  "Do  try  and  see  the  humour 
of  it,"  I  besought  him. 

But  the  money — that  little  incentive — I  kept  to  myself. 

He  stared  heavily  into  the  silvery  copse  that  bordered  the  track. 
Motionless  in  their  bright,  withering  leaves,  its  trees  hung  down 
their  tasselled  branches  beneath  the  darkening  sky.  Then,  much 
against  his  will,  he  turned  his  pony  towards  the  high  road.  The 
wheel  gridded  on  a  stone,  he  raised  his  whip. 

"Hst!"  I  whispered,  clutching  at  the  arm  that  held  the  rein. 
406 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Crouching  low,  we  watched  the  great  Monnerie  carriage,  with  its 
.stiff-necked,  blinkered,  stepping  greys  and  gleaming  lamps  sweep 

"There,"  I  laughed  up  at  him,  lifting  myself,  one  hand  upon  his 
knee,  "there  but  for  the  Grace  of  God  goes  Miss  M." 

The  queer  creature  frowned  into  my  smiling  face  and  flicked  the 
pony  with  bis  whip.  "And  here,"  he  muttered  moodily,  "who 
knows  but  by  the  Grace  of  God  go  I  ?" 

Anxiety  gone  now,  and  responsibility  but  a  light  thing,  my 
tongue  rattled  on  quite  as  noisily  as  the  cart.  Kent's  rich  corn- 
fields were  around  us,  their  stubble  a  pale  washed-out  gold  in  the 
last  light  of  evening.  Here  and  there  on  the  hills  a  row  or  two  of 
ungarnered  stooks  stood  solemnly  carved  out  against  the  sky. 
Most  of  the  hop-gardens,  too,  had  been  dismantled,  though  a  few 
we  passed,  with  their  slow-twirling  dusky  vistas  and  labyrinths, 
were  still  wreathed  with  bines.  Their  scent  drifted  headily  on 
the  stillness.  And  as  with  eyes  peeping  over  the  edge  of  the  cart 
I  watched  these  beloved,  homelike  hills  and  fields  and  orchards 
glide  by,  I  shrilled  joyfully  at  my  companion  every  thought  and 
fancy  that  came  into  my  head,  many  of  them,  no  doubt,  recent  de- 
posits from  the  library  at  No.  2. 

I  told  him,  I  remember,  how  tired  I  was  of  the  pernicketiness 
of  my  life ;  and  amused  him  with  a  description  of  my  Tank.  "You 
would  hardly  believe  it,  but  I  have  never  once  heard  the  least 
faint  whisper  of  water  in  it,  and  if  I  had  been  a  nice,  simple  sav- 
age, I  dare  say  I  should  have  prayed  to  it.  Instead  of  which, 
when  one  night  I  saw  a  star  over  the  housetop  I  merely  shrugged 
my  shoulders.  My  mind  was  so  rancid  I  hated  it.  I  was  so  shut 
in ;  that's  what  it  was." 

He  stroked  the  little,  thick-coated  horse  with  the  lash  of  his 
whip,  and  smiled  round  at  me. 

On  I  went.  Shouldn't  life  be  a  High  Road,  didn't  he  think; 
surely  not  a  hot,  silly  zigzag  of  short  cuts  leading  back  to  the  place 
you  started  from,  and  you  too  old  or  stupid,  perhaps,  to  begin 
again?  Didn't  he  hunger,  too,  to  see  the  great  things  of  the  world, 
the  ruins  of  Babylon,  the  Wall  of  China,  the  Himalayas,  and  the 
Pryamids — at  night — black ;  and  sand  ? 

"My  ghost!"  said  I,  had  he  ever  thought  of  the  enormous  soli- 

407 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tudes  of  the  Sahara,  or  those  remote  places  where  gigantic  images 
stare  blindly  through  the  centuries  at  the  stars — their  builders  just 
a  pinch  of  dust?  Some  day,  I  promised  him  out  of  the  abandon- 
ment of  my  heart,  we  would  sail  away,  he  and  I,  to  his  Pygmy 
Land.  Surf  and  snow  and  singing  sand-dunes,  and  fruits  on  the 
trees  and  birds  in  the  air:  we  would  live — "Oh,  happy  as  all 
this!"  (and  I  swept  my  hands  across  hill  and  dale),  "ever,  ever 
afterwards.  As  they  do,  Mr  Anon,  in  those  absurd,  incredible 
fairy-tales,  you  know." 

He  smiled  again,  cast  a  look  into  the  distance,  touched  my  hand. 

Perhaps  he  was  wishing  the  while  that  that  piercing,  pining  voice 
of  mine  would  keep  silence,  so  that  my  presence  might  not  disturb 
his  own  brooding  thoughts.  I  could  only  guess  at  pleasing  him. 
Yet  I  felt,  still  feel,  that  he  was  glad  of  my  company  and  never  for 
a  moment  sorry  we  had  met. 


408 


Chapter  Fifty-One 


BUT  our  brief  hour  was  drawing  to  an  end.  We  were  now 
passing  little  groups  of  country  people  and  children  in  the 
quiet  evening.  We  ourselves  talked  no  more.  The  old 
pony  plodded  up  yet  another  hill ;  we  went  clattering  down  its 
deep  descent ;  and  there,  in  the  green  bowl  of  a  meadow  sloping 
down  from  its  woody  fringes  above,  lay  scattered  the  bellying 
booths,  the  gaudy  wagons  and  cages  of  the  circus.  All  but  hid- 
den in  the  trees  above  them,  a  crooked,  tarnished  weather-cock 
glinted  in  the  sunset  afterglow.  Lights  twinkled  against  the  dy- 
ing daylight.  The  bright-painted  merry-go-round  with  its  star- 
ing, motionless,  galloping  horses  was  bathed  in  the  shine  of  its 
flares,  a  thin  plume  of  steam  softly  ascending  from  its  brass- 
rimmed  funnel. 

A  knot  of  country  boys,  gabbling  at  one  another  like  starlings, 
shrilled  a  cheer  as  we  came  rattling  over  a  stone  bridge  beneath 
which  a  stream  shallowly  washed  its  bank  of  osiers.  I  laughed  at 
them,  waved  my  hand.  At  this  they  yelled,  danced  in  the  road, 
threw  dust  into  the  air.  Not,  perhaps,  a  very  friendly  return;  but 
how  happy  I  was,  all  anxiety  and  responsibility  gone  now. 

The  faint,  rank  smell  of  the  wild  beasts  mingling  with  the  eve- 
ning air,  was  instilling  its  intoxication  in  my  brain.  I  longed  for 
darkness,  the  din  and  glare;  longed  for  my  tent  and  the  gaping 
faces,  for  the  smoky  wind  to  fan  my  cheek  as  I  bobbed  cantering 
round  the  ring.  It  must  have  been  a  ridiculously  childish  face 
that  ever  and  again  scrutinized  my  companion's.  Nothing  for  me 
in  that  looking-glass!  How  slow  a  face  his  was:  he  was  refusing 
to  look  at  me.  It  dismayed  and  fretted  me  to  find  him  so  sombre 
and  dour. 

His  glance  shifted  to  and  fro  under  a  frown  that  expressed  a 
restless  anxiety.  His  silence  seemed  to  reproach  me.  Oh,  well, 
when  the  day  was  over,  and  Mademoiselle's  finery  packed  up  in 
its  bundle  again,  and  the  paint  washed  off,  and  the  last  echo  of 

409 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

applause  from  the  crowded  benches  had  died  away,  and  my  pay 
was  safe  in  my  pocket,  then  he  would  know  that  the  stake  I  had 
played  for  had  been  my  freedom,  my  very  self.  Then  surely  his 
heart  would  lighten,  and  he  would  praise  me,  and  we  could  go  in 
peace.  Would  he  not  realize,  too,  that  even  my  small  body  had  its 
value,  and  was  admired  in  a  dismal  world  that  cared  not  a  jot  for 
the  spirit  that  inhabited  it? 

The  showman  stood  by  the  tent,  a  gaudy  silk  scarf  knotted  round 
his  neck.  My  lean-breasted  gipsy  woman  spangled  there  beside 
him,  with  her  black  hair  looped  round  her  narrow  bony  head,  and 
her  loose,  dusty,  puckered  boots  showing  beneath  her  skirts. 
There  was  a  clear  lustre  in  the  lamp-starred  air ;  and  the  spectacle 
of  man  and  woman,  of  resting  wheel  and  cropping  horse,  meadow 
and  hill,  poured  a  livelong  blessing  into  my  heart.  Even  the 
cowed,  enfeebled  lion  with  the  mange  of  age  and  captivity  in  his 
skin,  seemed  to  drowse  content,  and  the  satin-skinned  leopards — 
almost  within  pat  of  paw  of  the  flaxen-haired  girl  in  the  white 
stockings  who  leaned  idly  against  the  wheel — paced  their  den  as  if 
in  pride.  It  was  the  same  old  story :  my  heart  could  not  contain  it 
all.     Yet  to  whom  tell  its  secrets  ? 

A  roomier  tent  had  been  prepared  for  me.  We  were  ushered 
into  it  by  the  showman  with  a  mock  obeisance  that  swelled  the 
veins  on  his  forehead  almost  to  bursting.  The  gipsy's  birdlike 
eyes  pierced  and  darted  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  her  skinny 
hand  concealing  her  mouth.  I  felt  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  thank- 
ful that  my  mud-caked  shoes  and  petticoats  were  hardly  discerni- 
ble as  none  too  elegantly  I  scrambled  down  from  the  cart. 

The  showman  watched  me  with  that  sly,  covetous  grin  about 
his  mouth  that  I  knew  so  well,  though  the  stare  with  which  he  had 
greeted  Mr  Anon  had  been  more  insolent  than  friendly.  I  had  cut 
the  time  rather  close,  he  told  me,  but  better  late  than  never !  As 
for  that  long-nosed  rat  with  the  cage,  he  hadn't  been  much  smitten 
with  the  looks  of  him ;  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  ask  questions  of 
a  lady,  not  he.  Here  I  was,  and  he  hoped  I  had  come  for  good. 
A  rough  life  but  a  merry.  Up  with  the  lark  until  down  under 
the  daisies;  and  every  man  jack  of  them  ready  to  kiss  the  ground 
I  walked  on.  And  the  Fat  Woman — just  pining  good  money 
away  she  was,  with  longing  to  mother  the  little  stranger ! 

I  nodded  my  head  at  him  with  a  smile  as  worldly-wise  as  I  could 
410 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

make  it.  "It's  the  last  taste  that  counts,  Mr  Showman,"  I  said 
politely.  "Every  one  has  been  exceedingly  kind  to  me;  and  my 
love,  please,  to  the  Fat  Woman.  This  is  my  friend,  Mr  Anon. 
He  has  come  to  take  care  of  me.  We  shall  go  back — go  on  to- 
gether." 

The  showman  broke  into  a  laugh,  but  his  face  hardened  again, 
as,  grinding  one  jaw  slowly  on  the  other,  he  turned  to  Mr  Anon. 
Maybe  "the  young  gentleman"  was  anxious  to  enjoy  a  taste  of  the 
life  on  his  own  account,  he  asked  me.  Could  he  ride?  A  bit  of 
steeplechasing ?  There  was  plenty  of  horseflesh — a  double  turn: 
Beauty  and  the  Beast,  now?  Or  perhaps  another  Spotted  Boy? 
Love  or  money;  just  name  the  figure.  Treat  him  fair  and  square, 
and  he  wouldn't  refuse  a  genuine  offer;  though,  naturally,  every 
inch  made  a  difference,  and  a  foot  twelve  times  as  much.  And 
looks  were  looks. 

There  was  little  enough  to  enjoy  in  the  sound  of  all  this.  Ap- 
parently the  mere  sight  of  Mr  Anon  had  soured  the  showman. 
Many  of  his  words  were  Greek  to  me,  and  to  judge  from  the 
woman's  yelps  of  laughter  their  meaning  was  none  of  the  daintiest. 
I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  smiled,  spread  out  my  hands,  and  with 
a  word  or  two  fenced  him  off,  pretending  to  be  flattered.  He 
looked  at  the  woman  as  if  to  say,  There's  manners  for  you !  She 
made  a  sudden,  ferocious  grimace.  We  were  a  singular  four  in 
the  tent. 

But  it  would  be  false  to  profess  that  I  hadn't  a  sneaking  admira- 
tion for  the  man;  and  I  kept  glancing  uneasily  at  the  "young 
gentleman"  who  was  so  blackly  ignoring  his  advances.  To  say 
the  least  of  it,  it  was  a  little  unintelligent  of  Mr  Anon  not  to  take 
things  as  they  came,  if  only  for  my  sake. 

"But  you  must  please  try  and  help  me  a  little,"  I  pleaded,  when 
the  showman  and  the  gipsy  had  left  us  to  ourselves  for  a  moment. 
"It's  only  his  fun.  He's  really  not  a  bad  sort  of  man  underneath. 
You  can't  say  there's  a  Spirit  of  Evil  in  that  great  hulking  crea- 
ture, now  can  you?     I  am  not  the  least  bit  afraid  of  him." 

He  glanced  at  me  without  turning  his  head.  Involuntarily  I 
sighed.  Things  never  were  so  easy  as  one  supposed  or  hoped 
they  would  be. 

Already  my  fingers  were  busy  at  the  knots  of  my  bundle,  and 
for  a  while,  simply  because  what  Mr  Anon  was  saying  was  so  mon- 

411 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

strous  and  incredible,  I  continued  to  fumble  at  them  without 
attempting  to  answer  him.  He  was  forbidding  me  to  keep  my 
word;  forbidding  me  to  show  myself;  just  ordering  me  to  come 
away.  No,  no ;  he  must  be  crazy ;  I  had  never  understood  him. 
There  must  be  some  old  worm  in  his  mind.  He  was  telling  me  in 
so  many  words  that  to  lie  a  prey  to  the  mob's  curiosity  had  been 
a  disgrace — soiling  me  for  ever. 

The  cruel  stupidity  of  it!  With  head  bent  low  and  burning 
cheek  I  heard  his  harsh  voice  knell  on  and  on — not  persuading 
or  conciliating,  or  pleading  with  me — I  could  have  forgiven  him 
that  easily  enough ;  but  flatly  commanding  me  to  listen  and  obey. 

"For  mercy's  sake,"  I  broke  in  hurriedly  at  last,  "that's  enough 
of  that.  If  just  sitting  here  and  talking  to  one's  fellow-creatures 
has  smeared  me  over,  as  you  say  it  has,  why,  I  must  wait  till 
Jordan  to  be  clean.  You  should  have  seen  that  great  wallowing 
sow  this  evening.  SJic  wasn't  ashamed  of  herself.  Can't  you 
understand  that  I  simply  had  to  get  free?  You'd  see  it  was  for 
your  sake,  too,  perhaps,  if  you  had  had  the  patience  to  listen.  But 
there;  never  mind.  I  understand.  You  can't  endure  my  company 
any  longer.  That's  what  it  means.  Well,  then,  if  that  is  so, 
there's  no  help  for  it.  You  must  just  go.  And  I  must  be  alone 
again." 

But  no:  there  was  a  difference,  he  stubbornly  maintained. 
What  was  done,  was  done.  He  was  not  speaking  of  the  past. 
I  knew  nothing  about  the  world.  It  was  my  very  innocence  that 
had  kept  me  safe ;  "and — well,  the  courage."  My  innocence !  and 
the  "courage"  thrown  in!  But  couldn't  I,  wouldn't  I  see?  he 
argued.  The  need  was  over  now ;  he  was  with  me ;  there  was 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of ;  he  would  protect  me.  "Surely — oh,  you 
know  in  your  heart  you  couldn't  have  enjoyed  all  that !" 

"Oh,"  said  I  poisonously,  "so  you  don't  think  that  to  cheat  the 
blackguard,  as  you  call  him,  at  the  last  moment — and  please  don't 
suppose  I  have  forgotten  what  you  have  called  other  friends  of 
mine — you  don't  think  that  to  break  every  promise  I  have  made 

wouldn't  be  wallowing  worse  than Oh,  thank  you  for  the 

wallowing,  I  shall  remember  that." 

"But,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  began,  "I  never — " 

"I  say  I  am  not  your  dear,"  I  broke  in  furiously.     "One  moment 

you  dictate  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  child,  and  the  next As  if  1 

412 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

hadn't  been  used  to  that  pretence,  that  wheedling  all  my  life  long. 
As  if  I  had  ever  been  treated  like  an  ordinary  human  being — 
coddled  up,  smuggled  about,  whispered  at!  Why,  a  scullery 
maid's  is  I  'aradise  compared  with  the  life  I've  led.  And  as  for  the 
vile  mob  and  the  rest  of  it,  I  tell  you  I've  enjoyed  every  minute  of 
them.     I   make  them  clap  their  great  ugly  hands:  I  make  them 

ashamed  of  themselves;  they  can't  help  themselves;  they  just 

And  I've  comforted  some  of  them  too.  What's  more,  I  tell  you 
I  love  them.  They  are' my  own  people;  and  I'd  die  for  them  if 
they  would  only  forget  what's  between  us  and — and  share  it  all. 
You  be  careful ;  maybe  1  shall  stay  here  for  good.  They  don't 
wince  at  my  company;  they  don't  come  creeping  and  crawling. 
Why!  aren't  we  all  on  show?  Who  set  the  world  spinning?  I 
tell  you  I  hate  that — that  hypocrisy.  What  does  it  amount  to. 
pray,  but  that  you'd  like  the  pretty,  simpering  doll  all  to  yourself  ?" 
A  hooting  screech  broke  the  quiet  that  followed.  The  merry- 
go-round  had  set  to  its  evening's  labours.  Faster  and  faster 
jangled  the  pipes  and  chiming: — 

"I  dreampt  that  I  dwe-elt  in  mar-ar-ble  halls, 
With  vassals  and  serfs  by  my  si-i-ide  .  .  ." 

And  at  the  sound,  anger  and  pride  died  down  in  me.  I  lifted 
my  face  from  the  ground. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  muttered.  "But  you  don't  know  what  I  have 
gone  through  these  last  weeks.  And  even  if  I  were  a  hundred 
time-  as  ashamed  of  myself  as  you  think  I  ought  to  be,  I  couldn't — 
I  can't  go  back.  I  have  promised.  It's  written  down.  Only  once 
more — this  one  night,  and  I  swear  it  shall  be  the  last."  My  mouth 
crooked  itself  into  a  smile.  "You  shall  pray  for  me  on  the  hill," 
I  said,  "then  lead  me  off  to  a  Nunnery  yourself." 

And  still  I  could  not  wdiisper — Money.  The  word  stuck  in 
my  throat. 

I  [e  seemed  not  to  have  heard  the  miserable  things  I  had  been 
saying.  Without  a  syllable  of  retaliation,  he  came  a  little  nearer, 
and  stood  over  me.  We  were  all  but  in  darkness  now,  though 
lights  were  beating  on  the  canvas  of  our  tent.  It  was  quite,  quite 
simple,  he  said.  The  showman  was  no  fool.  He  couldn';  compel 
me  to  exhibit  myself  against  my  will.  A  contract  was  a  contract, 
of  course,  but  what  if  both  parties  to  it  agreed  to  break  it?  And 
supposing  the  showman   refused   to  agree — what   then?     There 

413 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

was  a  far  better  plan,  if  only  I  would  listen.     As  soon  as  he  had 
been  made  to  realize  that  nothing  on  earth  could  persuade  me  to 
show  myself  again,  he  would  accept  any  alternative:     "I'll  take 
your  place,"  smiled  Mr  Anon. 
Take  my  place! 

So  this  was  the  plan  he  had  been  brooding  over  on  our  journey. 
No  wonder  he  had  been  absent-minded.  Cold  with  dread  I  gazed 
at  him  in  the  obscurity  of  the  tent.  A  glimpse  of  Adam's  rabbit 
face  as  he  had  stood  brazening  out  his  fears  of  the  showman  on 
that  first  night  of  adventure  had  darted  through  my  mind.  And 
this  man — dwarfed,  shrunken,  emaciated. 

A  terrifying  compassion  gushed  up  into  my  heart,  breaking  down 
barriers  that  I  never  knew  were  there.  It  was  the  instant  in  my 
life,  I  think,  when  I  came  nearest  to  being  a  mother. 

"S-sh,"  I  implored  him.  "You  don't  understand.  You  can 
have  no  notion  of  what  you  are  saying.  I  am  a  woman.  They 
daren't  harm  me.  But  you!  They— and  besides,"  the  craftier 
argument  floated  into  my  mind,  "besides,  Mrs  Monnerie  .  .  ." 
But  the  sentence  remained  unfinished.  The  flap  of  the  tent 
had  lifted.  The  figure  of  the  showman  loomed  up  in  the  entry 
against  the  lights  and  the  darkening  sky.  He  was  in  excellent 
humour.  He  rattled  the  money  in  his  pocket  and  breathed  the 
smell  of  whisky  into  the  tent,  peering  into  it  as  if  he  were  un- 
certain whether  it  was  occupied  or  not. 

"That's  right,  then,"  he  began  huskily,  "that's  as  it  should  be. 
Ten  minutes,  your  ladyship!  And  maybe  the  young  gentleman 
would  give  a  hand  with  the  drum  outside,  while  you  get  through 
with  the  titivating." 

His  shape  was  only  vaguely  discernible  as  he  stood  gently  rock- 
ing there.  It  was  Mr  Anon  who  answered  him.  For  a  little 
while  the  showman  seemed  to  be  too  much  astounded  to  reply. 
Then  he  lost  control  of  himself.  A  torrent  of  imprecations 
spouted  out  of  his  mouth.  He  threatened  to  call  in  the  police, 
the  mob.  He  shook  his  brass-ringed  whip  in  our  faces.  I  had 
never  seen  a  man  of  his  kind  really  angry  before.  He  looked 
like  a  beast,  like  the  Apollyon  straddling  the  path  in  my  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  His  roaring  all  but  stunned  me,  swept  over  me.  as  if 
I  were  nothing — a  leaf  in  the  wind.  I  think  I  could  have  listened 
to  him  all  but  in  mere  curiosity — as  to  an  equinoctial  gale  when  one 
is  safe  in  bed — if  he  had  not  been  so  near,  and  the  tent  so  small 
414 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

and  gloomy,  and  if  Mr  A'non  had  not  been  standing  in  silence 
within  reach  of  his  hands.  But  his  fury  spent  itself  at  last. 
Slowly  his  head  turned  on  his  heavy  shoulders.  He  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  forgotten  his  rage  and  became  coaxing  and 
conciliatory.  He  had  a  sounding,  calf-like  voice,  and  it  rose  up 
and  down.  An  eavesdropper  outside  the  tent  would  have  supposed 
he  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

He  was  sure  the  young  lady  had  no  intention  of  cheating  him, 
of  "doing  the  dirty."  Why  he'd  as  lief  send  off  there  and  then  to 
the  great  house  for  the  flunkey  and  the  cage.  What  had  I  to 
complain  of?  Wasn't  it  private  enough?  Should  he  make  it 
a  level  bob-a-nob,  and  no  thruppenies  ?  There  was  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of.  "God  bless  you,  sir,  she  wouldn't  cheat  an  honest  man, 
not  she." 

People  were  swarming  into  the  Fair  from  miles  around,  and 
real  gentry  in  their  carriages  amongst  them,  like  as  had  never  been 
seen  before.  Did  we  want  to  ruin  him?  What  should  we  think 
now,  if  we  had  paid  down  good  money  to  come  and  see  the  neatest 
little  piece  of  female  shape  as  ever  God  Almighty  smuggled  out 
of  heaven;  and  in  we  went,  and  stuck  up  there  was  a  gent. — "a 
nice-spoken,  respectable  gent,"  he  agreed,  with  a  contemptuous 
heave  of  his  massive  shoulders,  "but  a  gent  no  less,  and  him 
gowked  up  on  the  table,  there,  why,  half  as  big  again,  and  mouth- 
ing, mouthing  like  a  .  .  .    ?"     The  hideous  words  poured  on. 

His  great  body  gently  rocked  above  me:  his  thumbs  hooked-in 
under  his  armpits,  his  whip  dangling.  Till  that  moment  I  had 
scarcely  realized  that  the  scene  in  which  I  sat  was  real,  I  had  been 
so  harassed  and  stupefied  by  his  noise.  But  now  he  had  begun  to 
think  of  what  he  was  saying.  In  those  last  words  an  unnameable 
insult  lurked.  He  was  looking  at  us,  seeing  us,  approaching  us  as 
if  in  a  dream. 

A  horror  of  the  spirit  came  over  me,  and,  as  if  rapt  away  from 
myself,  I  stared  sheer  up  at  him. 

"Beware,  my  friend,"  I  cried  up  at  him.  "Have  a  care.  I  see 
a  rope  around  your  neck." 

It  was  the  truth.  In  the  gloom,  actually  with  my  own  eyes, 
I  saw  a  noose  loosely  dangling  there  over  his  round,  heavy 
shoulders. 

So  to  this  day  I  see  my  showman.  His  circus,  I  believe, 
continues  to  roam  the  English  country-side,  and  by  the  mercy  of 

415 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

heaven  he  will  die  in  his  bed,  or,  better  still,  in  the  bracken.  But 
I  suppose,  like  most  of  us,  he  was  a  slave  to  his  own  superstitions, 
or  perhaps  it  was  my  very  littleness,  combined  with  the  memory 
of  some  old  story  he  had  heard  as  a  boy,  that  intimidated  him. 
His  mouth  opened ;  his  whip  shook ;  the  grin  of  a  wild  beast  swept 
over  his  face.     But  he  said  no  more. 

Yet  his,  none  the  less,  was  half  the  victory.  Nothing  on  earth 
could  now  have  dissuaded  me  from  keeping  my  bargain.  His 
words  had  bitterly  frightened  me.  No  one  else  should  be 
"gowked"  up  there.  I  turned  my  back  on  him.  He  could  go ;  I 
was  ready. 

But  if  I  could  be  obstinate,  so  too  could  Mr  Anon.  And  when 
at  last  our  argument  was  over,  I  in  sheer  weariness  had  agreed  to 
a  compromise.  It  was  that  I  should  show  myself ;  and  he  take  my 
place  in  the  circus.  The  showman's  money  was  safe ;  that  was  all 
he  cared  about.  If  "Humpty"  liked  to  petticoat  himself  ,up  like  a 
doxy  and  take  my  "turn''  in  the  ring — why,  it  was  a  rank  smell- 
ing robbery,  but  let  him — let  him.  He  bawled  for  the  woman, 
flung  a  last  curse  at  us,  and  withdrew. 

We  were  alone — only  the  vacancy  of  the  tent  between  us. 
Beyond  the  narrow  slit  I  could  see  the  merry  jostling  crowds, 
hoydens  and  hobbledehoys,  with  their  penny  squirts  and  paste- 
board noses  and  tin  trumpets.  A  strange  luminousness  bathed 
their  faces  and  clothes,  beautifying  them  with  light  and  shadow, 
carpeting  with  its  soft  radiance  the  rough  grey-green  grass.  The 
harvest  moon  was  brightening.  I  went  near  to  him  and  touched 
his  sleeve.  His  lips  contracted,  his  shoulder  drew  in  from  my 
touch. 

"Listen,"  I  pleaded.  "One  hour — that  is  all.  That  evening  in 
Wanderslore — do  you  remember  ?  All  my  troubles  over.  Yes,  I 
know.  I  have  brought  you  to  this.  But  then  we  can  talk.  Then 
you  shall  forgive  me." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand.  A  shuffling  step,  a  light  were  ap- 
proaching. I  fled  back,  snatched  up  my  bundle,  and  climbed  up 
into  the  darkness  behind  my  canvas  curtain.  The  next  moment 
gigantic  shadows  rushed  furiously  into  hiding,  the  tent  was 
swamped  with  the  flaring  of  the  naphtha-lamp  which  the  gipsy- 
woman  had  come  to  hang  to  the  tent-pole  to  light  my  last  seance. 

A  few  hasty  minutes,  and,  stealing  out,  I  bade  Mr  Anon  look. 
All  Angelique's  fair  hair  had  been  tied  into  a  bob  and  draped  man- 
416 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tilla-fashion  with  a  thick  black  veil.  A  black,  coarse  fringe  torn 
from  the  head  of  a  doll  which  I  had  found  in  the  bottom  of  m\ 
trunk,  dangled  over  her  forehead.  Her  eyebrows  were  angled  up 
like  a  Chinaman's.  Her  cheeks  were  chalk-white,  except  for  a 
dab  of  red  on  the  bone,  and  she  was  dressed  in  a  flounced  gown, 
jet  black  and  yellow,  which  I  had  cobbled  up  overnight  and  had 
padded  out,  bust,  hips,  and  shoulders  to  nearly  double  my  natural 
size.  A  spreading  topaz  brooch  was  on  her  breast,  chains  of  beads 
and  coral  dangled  to  her  waist,  and  a  silk  fan  lay  on  her  arm. 

I  swept  him  a  curtsey.  "I  dreamt  that  I  dwe-elt  in  mar-arble 
halls,"  I  piped  out  in  a  quavering  falsetto.  The  folly  of  taking 
things  so  solemnly.  What  was  humanity  but  a  dressed-up  ape? 
Had  not  my  fair  saint,  Isobel  de  Flores,  painted  her  cheeks,  and 
garlanded  her  hair?  And  all  his  answer  was  to  clench  his  teeth. 
He  turned  away  with  a  shudder. 

The  drum  reverberated,  the  panpipes  squealed.  I  signed  to  him 
to  hide  himself  in  the  recess  among  my  discarded  clothes,  out  of 
sight  of  peeping  eyes,  and  arranged  my  person  on  the  satin  and 
rabbit-skins. 

The  tent  flap  lifted  and  the  mob  pressed  in.  Stretching  out  in 
a  queue  like  a  serpent,  I  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  pale  saffron  moon- 
light of  the  crowd  beyond.  The  sixpences  danced  in  the  tray. 
Once  more  the  flap  descended ;  my  audience  stilled.  I  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  smiling,  defiant. 

"Why,  Bob  said  she  was  a  pale,  pinched-up  snippet  of  a  thing 
with  golden  hair,"  whispered  a  slip  of  a  girl  to  a  smooth  little 
woman  at  her  side. 

"Ay,  my  Goff !  And  a  waist  like  a  wedding-ring,"  responded 
a  wide  mouth  in  a  large  red  face,  peering  over. 

"Ah,  lady,"  warbled  the  Signorina,  "fair  to-day  and  foul  to- 
morrow. 'Believe  what  you  are  told,'  clanked  the  bell  in  the 
churchyard.     Stuffing,  my  pretty ;  ask  the  goose !" 

So  went  the  Signorina's  last  little  orgy.  It  would  be  a  lie  to 
profess  that  she,  or  rather  some  black  hidden  ghost  in  her,  did  not 
enjoy  it.  My  monstrous  disguise,  that  ferment  of  humanity,  those 
owlish  faces,  the  lurking  shame,  the  danger,  the  poisonous  excite- 
ment swept  me  clean  out  of  myself.  Anything  to  be  free  for  a 
while  from  "pernickety"  Miss  M.  But  that.  1  suppose,  is  the  ex- 
perience of  every  gambler  and  wastrel  and  jezebel  in  the  world, 
every  one  of  his  kind.     One  must  not  open  the  door  too  wide. 

417 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

But  this  was  not  all.  On  other  nights  I  had  been  alone.  Now 
I  was  fervidly  conscious  of  unseen,  hungering  eyes,  watching  every 
turn,  and  glance,  and  gesture.  My  dingy  da'is  was  no  longer  in 
actuality.  I  lived  in  that  one  watcher's  mind — in  his  imagination. 
And  deep  beneath  this  insane  excitement  lay  a  gentle,  longing  hap- 
piness. Oh,  when  this  vile  tinsel  show  was  over,  and  these  swarm- 
ing faces  had  melted  into  thin  air,  and  the  moonlit  empty  night  was 
ours,  what  would  I  not  pour  out  for  his  peace  and  comfort.  What 
gratitude  and  tenderness  for  all  that  he  had  been  to  me,  and  done, 
and  said.  Why.  we  seemed  never  even  to  have  spoken  to  each 
other— not  self  to  self,  and  there  was  all  the  world  to  tell. 

Hotter,  ranker  grew  the  fetid  atmosphere.  I  could  scarcely 
breathe  in  my  monstrous  mummery.  But  clearly,  the  showman 
was  making  a  rich  bargain  of  me,  and  rumour  of  a  Midget  that 
was  golden  as  Aphrodite  one  night,  and  black  as  pitch  the  next, 
only  thickened  the  swarm.  At  length — long  expected — there  came 
a  pause.  Yet  another  country  urchin  flat  on  his  stomach  in  the 
grass,  with  head  goggling  up  at  me  from  the  hem  of  the  canvas, 
was  dragged  out,  screeching  and  laughing,  by  his  breeches.  But 
I  had  caught  the  accents  of  a  well-known  voice,  and,  crouching, 
with  head  wrenched  aside  to  listen,  I  heard  the  gipsy's  whining 
reply. 

My  moment  had  come.  A  pulse  began  its  tattoo  in  my  head. 
To  remain  helplessly  lying  there  was  impossible.  I  thrust  myself 
on  to  my  feet  and,  drawing  back  a  pace  or  two,  stood  hunched  up 
on  the  crimson  spread  of  satin  beside  my  wooden  bolster.  The 
canvas  lifted,  and  one  by  one,  the  little  party  of  "gentry"  stooped 
and  filed  in. 


418 


Chapter  Fifty-Two 


MRS  MONNERIE  had  paid  for  elbow  room.  It  was  the 
last  "Private  View"  in  this  world  we  were  to  share  to- 
gether. The  sight  of  her  capacious  figure  with  its  great 
bonnet  and  the  broad,  dark  face  beneath,  now  suddenly  become 
strange  and  hostile,  filled  me  with  a  vague  sense  of  desolation. 
Yet  I  know  she  has  forgiven  me.  Had  I  not  pocketed  my  "pretty 
little  fastidiousness"? 

What  Fanny  had  planned  to  do  if  Miss  M.,  plain  and  simple, 
had  occupied  the  Signorina's  table  I  cannot  even  guess.  For 
the  spectacle  of  the  squat,  black,  gloating  guy  she  actually 
found  there,  she  was  utterly  unprepared.  It  seemed,  as  I  looked 
at  her,  that  myself  had  fainted — had  withdrawn  out  of  my  body — 
like  the  spirit  in  sleep.  Or,  maybe,  not  to  be  too  nice  about  it,  I 
merely  "became"  my  disguise.  With  mind  emptied  of  every 
thought,  I  sank  into  an  almost  lifeless  stagnancy,  and  with  a  heavy 
settled  stare  out  of  my  black  and  yellow,  from  under  the  coarse 
fringe  that  brushed  my  brows,  I  met  her  eyes.  Out  of  time  and 
place,  in  a  lightless,  vacant  solitude,  we  wrestled  for  mastery.  At 
length  the  sneering,  incredulous  smile  slowly  faded  from  the  pale, 
lovely  face,  leaving  it  twisted  up  as  if  after  a  nauseous  draught 
of  physic.  Her  gaze  faltered,  and  fell.  Her  bosom  rose;  she 
coughed  and  turned  away. 

"Hideous!  monstrous!"  murmured  Mrs  Monnerie  to  the  tall, 
expressionless  figure  that  stood  beside  her.  "The  abject  evil  of 
the  creature !" 

Her  dark,  appraising  glance  travelled  over  me — feet,  hands, 
body,  lace-draped  head.  It  swept  across  my  eyes  as  if  they  were 
less  significant  than  bits  of  china  stuck  in  a  cocoanut. 

"No,  Miss  Bowater,"  she  turned  massively  round  on  her,  "you 
were  perfectly  right,  it  seems.  As  usual — but  a  dangerous  habit, 
my  dear.  My  little  ransoming  scheme  must  wait  a  bit.  Just  as 
well,  perhaps,  that  our  patient's  dainty  nerves  should  have  been 

419 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

spared    this    particular    little    initiation .     Could    one    have 

imagined  it?" 

Mr  Padgwick-Steggall  merely  raised  his  eyebrows.  "I  should- 
n't have  cared  to  try,"  he  drawled.  And  the  lady  beside  him 
made  a  little  mouth  and  laid  her  gloved  hand  on  his  arm. 

"But,  Madame  is  forgetting,"  whined  the  Signorina  in  a  broken 
nosy  English  over  her  outspread  fan,  "Madame  is  forgetting. 
It's  alive !  Oh,  truly !"  and  I  clasped  my  arms  even  tighter  across 
my  padded  chest,  my  body  involuntarily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
thqugh  not  with  amusement. 

"Madame  is  forgetting  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Mrs 
Monnerie  heartily.  "The  princess  is  an  angel — Angelique — 
adorable."  She  turned  to  the  gipsy  woman  and  slipped  a  coin 
into  the  claw-like  fingers.  "Well,  good-night,"  she  nodded  at  me. 
"We  are  perfectly  satisfied." 

"La,  la,  Madame,"  my  stuttering  voice  called  after  her,  the 
words  leaping  out  from  some  old  hiding-place  in  my  mind.  "Je 
vous  renter tie,  madame.     Ricn  ne  va  plus.  .  .  .     Noir  gagne!" 

Her  ebony  stick  shook  beneath  her  hand.  "Unspeakable,"  she 
angrily  ejaculated,  stumping  her  way  out.  "A  positive  outrage 
against  humanity." 

I  shut  my  eyes,  but  the  silent  laughter  that  had  once  overtaken 
me  in  my  bedroom  at  Mrs  Bowater's  scarcely  sounded  in  my  head. 
And  Mrs  Monnerie  could  more  easily  survive  the  little  exchange 
than  I.  My  body  was  dull  and  aching  as  if  after  a  severe  fall. 
The  booth  was  filling  for  the  last  time. 

Little  life  was  left  in  the  inert  figure  that  faced  this  new  assort- 
ment of  her  fellow-creatures :  how  strangely  dissimilar  one  from 
another;  how  horrifyingly  alike.  A  faint  premonition  bade  me 
be  on  my  guard.  Under  the  wavering  flame  of  the  lamp,  my 
glance  moved  slowly  on  from  face  to  face,  eye  on  to  eye ;  and  be- 
hind every  one  a  watcher  whom  now  I  dared  not  wait  to  challenge. 
Empty  or  cynical,  disgusted,  malevolent,  or  blankly  curious,  they 
met  me:  none  pitiful;  none  saddened  or  afflicted.     On   former 

nights Why  had  they  grown  so  hostile?    This,  then,  was  to 

smother  in  the  bog. 

But  one  face  there  was  known  to  me,  and  that  known  well. 
Hoping,  perhaps,  to  take  me  unaware,  or  may  it  have  been  to 
snatch  a  secret  word  with  me;  Fanny  had  slipped  back  into  the 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

tent  again,  and  was  now  steadily  regarding  me  from  behind  the 
throng.  A  throng  so  densely  packed  together  that  the  canvas 
walls  bulged  behind  them,  and  the  tent-pole  bent  beneath  the  strain. 
Yet  so  much  alone  were  she  and  I  in  that  last  infinite  moment  that 
we  might  have  been  whispering  together  after  death.  And  this 
time,  suddenly  overwhelmed  with  self-loathing,  it  was  I  who 
turned  away. 

When,  stretching  my  cramped  limbs,  I  drew  back,  exhausted 
and  shivering,  from  the  empty  tent,  I  thought  for  an  instant  that 
the  figure  which  sat  crouching  in  the  corner  of  the  recess  was 
asleep.  T>ut  no:  with  head  averted,  sweat  gleaming  on  his  fore- 
head, he  rose  to  his  feet.  His  consciousness  had  been  my  theatre 
in  a  degree  past  even  my  realization. 

"Then,  that  is  over,"  was  all  he  said.     "Now  it  is  my  turn." 

The  voice  was  flat  and  indifferent,  but  he  could  not  conceal  his 
disgust  of  what  had  passed,  nor  his  dread  of  what  was  to  come. 
Why,  I  thought  angrily  once  more  as  I  looked  at  him,  why  did  he 
exaggerate  things  like  this?  Even  a  drowning  man  can  sink 
three  times,  and  still  cheat  the  water.  What  cared  I  ? — the  night 
was  nearly  over.  We  should  have  won  release.  Why  consider 
it  so  deeply?  But  even  while  I  pleaded  with  him  to  let  me  finish 
the  wretched  business — every  savour  of  adventure  and  daring 
and  romance  gone  from  it  now — I  was  conscious  of  the  trussed- 
up  monstrosity  that  confronted  him.  He  could  not  endure  even 
a  glance  at  my  painted  face.  I  stepped  back  from  him  with  a 
hidden  grimace.     Past  even  praying  for,  then.     So  be  it. 

I  heard  the  nimble  stepping  of  the  pony's  hoofs  on  the  worn 
turf.  A  sullen  malice  smouldered  in  its  reddish,  luminous  eyes. 
\\  hen  I  clutched  at  its  bridle  it  jerked  back  its  sensitive  head  as 
if  teased  with  a  gadfly.  The  gipsy  daubed  vermilion  on  my 
friend's  sallow  cheeks.  She  shook  out  the  tarnished  finery  she 
had  brought  with  her  and  hung  it  round  the  stooping  shoulders. 
She  plastered  down  his  black  hair  above  his  eyes,  and  thrust  a 
riding-whip  into  his  hand. 

"There,  my  fine  pretty  gentleman,"  she  smirked  at  him.  "King 
of  the  Carrots !  I  lay  even  your  own  mammie  wouldn't  know  you 
now,  not  even  if  you  tried  it  straddle-legs.     Tug  at  the  knot, 

lovey ;  it's  fast,  but  it  won't  strangle  you.     As  for  you,  you !" 

she  suddenly  flamed  at  me,  "all  very  fly  and  cunning,  but  if  I'd 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

had  the  fixing  of  it,  you  wouldn't  have  diddled  me :  not  you.  I 
know  your  shop.  Slick  off  double  quick,  I  warn  you,  or  you'll 
have  the  mob  at  your  heels.     Now  then,  master !" 

She  grasped  at  the  bridle,  slapped  the  tooth-bared  sensitive  muz- 
zle with  her  hand.  I  drew  back,  cowed  and  speechless.  The  sour 
thought  died  in  my  mind — Better,  perhaps,  if  we  had  missed 
each  other  on  the  road.  The  pony  jerked  and  snatched  back  its 
head. 

He  was  gone,  and  now  I  was  quite  alone.  What  was  there  to 
fear?  Only  his  contempt,  his  loathing  of  this  last  humiliation? 
But  that,  too,  would  soon  be  nothing  but  a  memory.  As  always, 
the  present  would  glide  into  the  past.  Yet  a  dreadful  foreboding 
daunted  me.  Coarse  canvas,  walls  and  roof,  table,  beaten  grass, 
my  very  hands  and  clothes  had  become  menacing  and  unreal. 
The  lamp  hissed  and  bubbled  as  if  at  any  moment  it  would  burst 
asunder.  Alone,  afraid,  ashamed,  in  the  foulness  of  the  tent,  I 
looked  around  me  in  the  silence ;  and  beyond,  above — the  Universe 
of  night  and  space.  All  my  life  but  the  feeble  rustlings  of  a  mouse 
in  straw. 

As  I  stripped  off  my  miserable  gewgaws  I  discovered  myself 
talking  into  my  solitude;  weeping,  beseeching,  though  eyes  were 
dry  and  tongue  silent.  I  scoured  away  the  chalk  and  paint :  and 
cleansed  as  far  as  possible  my  travel-stained  clothes.  From  my 
bit  of  looking-glass  a  scared  and  shining  face  looked  out.  "Oh, 
my  dear,"  I  whispered,  but  not  to  its  reflection,  "it  is  as  clean  now 
and  for  ever  as  I  can  make  it."  I  tied  up  my  bundle. 

It  was  impossible  to  cheat  away  the  moments  any  longer.  I  sat 
down  and  listened.  A  distant  roar  of  welcome,  like  that  of  a  wave 
breaking  over  a  wreck,  had  been  borne  across  as  the  band  broke 
into  its  welcoming  tune.  I  saw  the  ring,  its  tall,  lank-cheeked 
"master"  in  his  white  shirt  and  coat-tails,  the  lights,  the  sidling, 
squalling  clown,  and  the  slim,  exquisite  creature  with  its  ungainly 
rider  ambling  on  and  on.  Where  sat  Fanny  amidst  that  rabble? 
What  were  her  thoughts?  Was  Mrs  Monnerie  already  yawning 
over  the  low,  beggarly  scene?  A  few  minutes  now.  I  began  to 
count.  A  scream,  human  or  animal,  rose  faint  and  awful  in  the 
distance,  and  died  away. 

I  climbed  down  the  ladder  and  looked  out  of  the  tent.  Far- 
422 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

spread  the  fields  and  wooded  hills  lay,  as  if  in  a  swoon  beneath  the 
blazing  moonlight.  The  scattered  lamps  on  the  slope  shone  dim 
as  glow-worms.  Only  a  few  figures  loitered  in  the  gleam  of  the 
side-shows,  and  so  engrossed  and  still  sat  the  watching  multitude 
beneath  the  enormous  mushroom  of  the  tent,  so  thinly  floated  out 
its  strains  of  music,  that  the  hollow  clucking  of  the  stream  over  its 
pebbles  beneath  the  wan-stoned  bridge  was  audible.  A  few  iso- 
lated stars  glittered  faintly  in  the  heights  of  the  sky.  What  was 
happening  now?  Why  did  he  not  hasten?  I  was  ready:  my  life 
prepared.  I  could  bear  no  more  waiting.  A  whip  cracked.  The 
music  ceased :  silence.     One  moment  now. 

Again  the  whip  cracked.  And  then,  as  if  at  a  signal,  a  vast,  pro- 
tracted, unanimous  bawl  poured  up  into  space,  a  spout  of  sound, 
like  a  gigantic,  invisible  flower.  "That  wasn't  applause.  But, 
you  know,  that  wasn't  applause,"  I  heard  myself  muttering. 
There  can  be  no  mistaking  the  sound  of  human  mockery.  There 
can  be  no  mistaking  that  brutal  wrench  at  the  heart,  under  one's 
very  ribs.     I  leapt  round  where  I  stood,  in  a  kind  of  giddiness. 

The  shout  died  away.  An  indiscriminate  clamour  broke  out — 
clapping  of  hands,  beating  of  feet,  whistling,  hootings,  booings, 
catcalls,  and  these  all  but  drowned  by  cymbal,  drum,  trombone : 
"Good-bye,  Sweetheart,  Good-bye."  It  was  over.  Unlike  Mrs 
Monnerie,  the  mob  was  imperfectly  satisfied.  But  all  was  well. 
The  elephant,  massive,  imperturbable — the  sagacious  elephant  with 
the  hurdy-gurdy,  must  now  be  swinging  into  the  ring. 

I  ran  out  over  the  trampled  grass  to  meet  the  approaching  group 
— showman,  gipsy,  trembling,  sweating  pony.  Its  rider  stooped 
forward  on  the  saddle,  clutching  its  pommel,  as  if  afraid  of  fall- 
ing. He  pushed  himself  off",  lurched  unsteadily,  lifted  and  let  fall 
his  arm  in  an  attempt  to  stroke  the  milk-white  snapping  muzzle. 
The  strings  of  his  cloak  were  already  broken.  He  edged  from 
beneath  it,  and  with  his  left  hand  clumsily  brushed  the  dust  and 
damp  from  his  face. 

"He  hadn't  quite  the  knack  of  it,"  the  showman  was  explain- 
ing. "Stirrup  a  morsel  too  short,  maybe.  All  the  strength,  lady, 
and  the  ginger,  by  God,  but  not  the  knack,  you  understand.  And 
we  offered  him  a  quieter  little  animal  too.  But  what  I  say  is,  a 
bargain's  a  bargain,  that's  what  I  say.  A  bit  dazed-like,  sir,  eh? 
My,  you  did  come  a  cropper." 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"Sst!  are  you  hurt?"  I  whispered. 

The    head     shook ;    his     moon-washed     face    smiled     at    me. 

"Come  now.  come  nozv,"  I  implored  him,  tugging  at  his  arm, 
"before  the  crowd  .  .  ." 

He  recoiled  as  if  my  touch  had  scalded  him. 

"We  go "  I  turned  to  the  showman. 

Hands  thrust  under  his  leathern  belt,  he  looked  fixedly  at  me, 
and  then  at  the  woman.     Her  eyes  glittered  glassily  back  at  him. 

"That's  it.  The  young  lady  knows  best.  He's  twisted  his 
shoulder,  lady;  wrenched  it;  more  weight  than  size,  as  you  might 
say.  She'll  know  where  to  make  her  friend  comfortable.  Trust 
the  ladies.  Never  you  be  afraid  of  that.  Now,  then,  Mary, 
fetch  up  the  gentleman's  cart." 

The  woman,  with  one  wolfish  glance  into  his   face,   obeyed. 

"There,  sir!  Is  that  easier?  Push  the  rags  in  there  behind  his 
back.  It'll  save  the  jolts.  Lord  love  you,  I  wouldn't  split  on  the 
pair  of  you,  not  me.  I  know  the  old,  old  story.  There,  that's  it ! 
Now,  then,  your  ladyship.  No  more  weight  in  the  hand  than  a 
mushroom !  All  serene,  Mary.  Home  sweet  home ;  that's  the 
tune,  sir,  ain't  it  ?     Drive  easy  now :  and  off  we  go." 


424 


Chapter  Fifty-Three 


NOISELESSLY  turned  the  wheels  in  the  grass.  We  were 
descending  the  hill.  A  jolt,  and  we  were  in  the  road.  A 
hedgerow  shut  us  out  from  the  two  shrouded  watchers  by 
the  tent.  The  braying  music  fainted  away;  and  apart  from  the 
t  rutting  hoofs  and  the  grinding  of  the  wheels  in  the  dust,  the  only 
sound  I  heard  was  an  occasional  lofty  crackle  in  space,  as  a  rocket 
— our  last  greeting  from  the  circus — stooping  on  its  fiery  course, 
strewed  its  coloured  stars  into  the  moonlight.  Then  the  rearing 
hill-side  shut  us  out. 

Speechlessly,  from  the  floor  of  the  cart,  I  watched  the  stooping 
figure  above  me.  Ever  and  again,  at  any  sudden  lurch  against  a 
stone,  he  shrank  down,  then  slowly  lifted  himself,  turned  his  head 
and  smiled. 

"That's  the  tune,  sir ;  that's  the  tune,  sir."  The  words  aimlessly 
repeated  themselves  in  my  brain,  as  if  bringing  me  a  message  I 
could  not  grasp  or  understand.  "What  was  I  thinking  about?"  a 
voice  kept  asking  me.  A  strange,  sluggish  look  dwelt  in  the 
dilated  pupils  under  the  drooping  lids  when  the  moonbeams  struck 
in  on  us  from  between  the  branches.  His  right  hand  hung  loosely 
down.     I  clasped  it — stone-cold. 

"Listen,  tell  me,"  I  entreated,  "you  fell?  I  heard  them  calling, 
and — and  the  clapping,  what  then?"  I  could  speak  no  louder, 
but  he  seemed  scarcely  able  to  hear  me. 

"My  shoulder,"  he  answered  thickly,  as  if  the  words  came 
sluggishly  and  were  half-strange  to  him.  "I  fell  .  .  .  Nothing: 
nothing.     Only  that  I  love  you." 

The  breath  sighed  itself  away.  I  leaned  my  cheek  against  the 
unanswering  hand,  and  chafed  it  with  mine.  Where  now  ? 
Where  now? 

"Wre  must  keep  awake,"  I  called  beguilingly  into  the  slumbrous 
face,  after  a  long  silence,  as  if  to  a  child.     "Awake!" 

A  sigh,  as  he  smiled  in  answer,  shook  him  from  head  to  foot. 

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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

"You  are  thirsty?  What's  this  on  your  coat?  Look,  there  is 
a  gate.  I'll  creep  through  and  get  help."  I  scrambled  up,  en- 
deavouring in  vain  to  clutch  at  the  reins. 

But  no;  his  head  stirred  its  No;  the  left  hand  still  held  them 
fast.     "Only  .  .  .  wait." 

Was  it  "wait" — that  last  faint  word?  It  fell  into  my  mind 
like  a  leaf  into  a  torrent,  and  before  I  could  be  sure  of  it,  the 
sound  was  gone. 

Instinct,  neither  his  nor  mine,  guided  us  on  through  the  winding 
lanes,  up  hill  and  down,  along  the  margin  of  sleeping  wood  and 
light-dappled  stream,  over  a  level  crossing  whose  dew-rusted  rails 
gleamed  in  the  moon,  then  up  once  more,  the  retreating  hill-side 
hollowly  echoing  to  every  clap  of  hoof  against  stone.  There  was 
no  strength  or  will  left  in  me,  only  thoughts  which  in  the  dark 
within,  between  waking  and  sleeping,  seemed  like  hovering  flies 
to  veer  and  dart — fantasies,  fragments  of  dream,  rather  than 
thoughts. 

I  realized  how  sorely  he  was  hurt,  yet  not  then  in  my  stupidity 
and  horror — or  is  it  that  I  refused  to  confess  it  to  myself  ? — that 
his  hurt  was  mortal.  Morning  would  come  soon.  I  grasped 
tight  the  hand  in  mine.  Then  help.  In  this  monotony  and  weari- 
ness of  mind  and  body,  the  passing  trees  seemed  to  dance  and 
gesticulate  before  my  eyes.  A  torturing  drowsiness  crept  over 
me  which  in  vain,  thrusting  up  my  eyelids  with  my  fingers, 
beating  my  senseless  feet  on  the  floor  of  the  cart,  I  tried  to  dispel. 
Once,  I  remember,  I  rose  and  threw  my  cape  over  his  shoulder. 
At  last  I  must  have  slept. 

For  the  next  thing  I  became  conscious  of  was  that  the  cart  was 
at  a  standstill,  and  that  the  pony  stood  cropping  the  thyme-sweet 
turf  by  the  wayside.  I  touched  the  cold  dark  hand.  "Hush, 
my  dear,  we  are  here !" 

But  I  expected  no  answer.  The  head  was  sunken  between  the 
heavy  shoulders ;  the  pallid  features  were  set  in  an  empty  stare. 
There  wasn't  a  sound  in  the  whole  world,  far  or  near.  "Oh,  but 
you  haven't  said  a  single  word  to  me!"  It  was  the  only  speech 
in  my  mind — a  reproach.  It  died  on  my  lips;  I  drew  away. 
What  was  this? — a  dreadful  fear  plucked  at  my  sleeve,  fear  of 
the  company  I  was  in,  of  a  solitude  never  so  much  as  tasted  before. 
I  leapt  out  of  the  cart,  stood  up  in  the  dust,  and  in  the  creeping 
light  stared  about  me. 
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Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Every  window  of  the  creeper-hung  cottage  was  shrouded,  its 
gate  latched.  I  struggled  to  climb  the  fence,  to  fling  a  stone 
through  the  casement.  The  moon  shone  glassily  in  the  cold  skies, 
but  daybreak  was  in  the  east;  I  must  wait  till  morning.  With 
eyes  fixed  on  the  motionless  head  I  sat  down  in  the  grass  by  the 
wayside.  Ever  and  again,  after  solemnly  turning  to  survey  me, 
the  pony  dragged  the  cart  on  a  foot  or  two  under  the  willows, 
nibbling  the  dewy  grass. 

Roused  suddenly  from  stupor  by  the  howling  of  a  dog,  I  leapt 
up.  Who  called?  Where  was  I?  What  had  I  forgotten?  In 
renewed  and  dreadful  recognition  I  looked  vacantly  around  me. 
A  strangeness  had  come.     His  company  was  mine  no  longer. 

Dawn  brightened.  The  voice  of  a  thrush  pealed  out  of  the  or- 
chard beyond  the  stone  wall — wild  and  sweet  as  in  Spring.  I 
crouched  on  the  ground,  elbows  on  knees,  and  now  kept  steady 
watch  upon  those  night-hung  upper  windows.  At  last  a  curtain 
was  drawn  aside.  An  invisible  face  within  must  have  looked 
down  upon  us  in  the  lane.  The  casement  was  unlatched  and 
thrust  open,  and  a  grey,  tousled  head  pushed  out  as  if  in  alarm  in- 
to the  keen  morning.  At  sight  of  it  a  violent  hiccoughing  seized 
me,  so  that  when  an  old  woman  appeared  at  her  door  and  hobbled 
out  to  the  cart,  I  could  not  make  myself  understood.  Her  sleep- 
bleared,  faded  eyes  surveyed  me  with  horror  and  suspicion — as  if 
in  my  smallness  there  I  looked  scarcely  human.  She  shook  her 
crooked  fingers  at  me,  to  scare  me  off ;  then  stooping,  put  her 
head  into  the  cart.     I  cried  out,  and  ran 


427 


Chapter  Fifty-Four 


THE  sun  had  burned  for  some  hours  in  the  heavens,  when 
bleeding  with  thorns  and  on  fire  with  nettles  and  stinking 
mayweed,  I  dragged  myself  out  of  the  undergrowth  into 
a  low-lying  corner  of  the  desolate  garden.  Near  by  lay  a  pool 
of  water  under  an  old  ruinous  wall,  swept  by  the  foliage  of  an 
ash.  On  a  flat,  shelving  stone  at  its  brink  I  knelt  down,  bathed 
my  face,  and  drank. 

All  that  day  I  spent  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  water,  over- 
hung with  the  colourless  trumpets  of  convolvulus.  Occasionally 
I  edged  on,  but  only  to  keep  pace  with  the  sunbeams,  for  I  was 
deathly  cold,  and  as  soon  as  shadow  drew  over  me,  fits  of  shiver- 
ing returned.  For  some  hours  I  slept,  but  so  shallowly  that  I 
heard  my  own  voice  gabbling  in  dreams. 

When  I  awoke,  the  western  sky  was  an  ocean  of  saffron  and 
gold.  Amidst  its  haze,  stood  up  the  distant  clustered  chimneys 
of  Wanderslore :  and  I  realized  I  must  be  in  an  outlying  hollow  of 
the  park — farthest  from  Beechwood  Hill.  I  sat  up,  bound  back 
my  hair,  and,  bathing  my  swollen  feet  in  the  dark,  ice-cold  water, 
I  watched  the  splendour  fade. 

While  there  was  still  light  in  the  sky  I  set  out  for  the  cottage 
again,  but  soon  found  myself  in  such  distress  amongst  the  tangled 
weeds  and  grasses,  which  at  every  movement  flung  their  stifling 
dust  and  seeds  and  pollen  over  me,  that  I  was  compelled  to  give 
up  the  attempt.  With  senseless  tears  dropping  down  my  cheeks,  I 
returned  to  the  pool,  and  made  my  bed  in  the  withered  bracken. 

So  passed  the  next  days.  When  once  more  the  cloudless  heat 
of  the  sun  had  diminished,  I  made  another  attempt  to  press  back 
by  the  way  I  had  come,  if  only  to  look  up  at  those  windows  again. 
But  I  was  dazed  and  exhausted ;  lost  my  way ;  and,  keeping  watch 
until  daybreak,  I  returned  again  to  the  pool.  Sitting  there,  I  tried 
to  control  my  misery  and  be  calm.  "Wait,  wait ;  I  am  coming," 
428 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

was  my  one  inarticulate  thought.  Surely  that  other  solitude  must 
be  the  easier  to  bear.  But  it  was  in  vain.  He  was  dead ;  and  I 
had  killed  him — pride,  vanity,  greed,  obstinacy,  lovelessness. 
Every  flower  and  fading  leaf  bore  witness  against  me. 

Now  and  again  I  quenched  my  thirst  and  rambled  off  a  little 
way  in  search  of  a  few  fallen  hazel  nuts  and  blackberries,  and 
attempted  to  ease  the  pain  and  distress  I  was  in.  But  I  knew 
in  my  heart  that  a  few  such  days  must  see  the  last  of  me,  and  I 
had  no  other  desire.  Evening  came  with  its  faint  stars.  My 
mind  at  last  seemed  to  empty  itself  of  thought ;  and  until  dark 
fell,  a  self  sat  at  the  windows  of  my  eyes  gazing  heedlessly  out 
over  that  peace  and  beauty  without  consciousness  even  of  grief 
and  despair.  Nocturnal  creatures  began  to  stir  in  weed  and 
thicket ;  a  thin  mist  to  rise.  For  a  while  I  kept  watch  until  sense 
left  me,  and  I  slept. 

A  waning  misshapen  moon  hung  over  the  garden  when  I  awoke, 
my  mind  still,  clear,  empty.  So  empty  that  I  might  but  just  have 
re-entered  the  world  after  the  lapse  of  ages.  In  this  silvery  hush 
of  night,  winged  shapes  wrere  wheeling  around  and  above  me, 
piercing  the  air  with  mad,  strident  cries.  With  sight  strangely 
sharpened  and  powerful,  I  gazed  tranquilly  up,  and  supposed  for 
a  while  these  birds  were  swallows.  Idly  I  watched  them,  scarcely 
conscious  whether  they  were  real  or  creatures  of  the  imagination. 

Darting,  swooping  in  the  mild  blaze  of  the  moonlight,  with 
gaping  beaks  and  whirring  wings,  they  swept,  wavered,  tumbled 
above  their  motionless  pastures;  ghostly-fluttering,  feathery- 
plumed  moths  their  prey.  At  last,  a  continuous  churring,  like 
the  noise  of  a  rattle,  near  at  hand,  betrayed  them.  I  lay  in  my 
solitude  in  the  midst  of  a  whirling  flock  of  nightjars,  few  in 
number,  but  beside  themselves  with  joy,  on  the  eve  of  their 
autumnal  flight. 

I  can  only  grope  my  way  now  through  vague  and  baffling  memo- 
ries. Maybe  it  was  the  frenzied  excitement  of  these  madly  happy 
birds  that  shed  itself  into  my  defenceless  mind,  after  rousing  me 
into  the  night  I  knew  too  well.  With  full,  vigilant  eyes  I  am 
standing  again  a  few  paces  from  the  brink  of  the  pool,  looking  up 
into  a  moonlit  hush  of  deadly  nightshade,  its  noxious  flowering 
over,  and  hung  with  its  black,  gleaming,  cherry-like  fruit.  I  can- 
not recall  having  ever  given  a  thought  to  this  poisonous  plant  in 

429 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

Wanderslore  during  my  waking  hours,  though  in  my  old  happy 
reconnoitrings  of  the  garden  I  had  sometimes  chanced  on  the 
coral-red  clusters  of  the  woody  nightshade — the  bittersweet,  and 
had  afterwards  seen  it  in  blossom. 

It  may  be  that  only  a  part  of  my  mind  was  fully  awake,  while 
the  rest  dreamed  on.  Yet,  as  I  strive  to  return  in  imagination 
to  that  solitary  hour,  I  am  certain  that  a  complete  realization  was 
mine  of  the  power  distilled  into  those  alluring  light-glossed  berries ; 
and,  slave  of  my  drowsy  senses,  I  fixed  gaze  and  appetite  on 
them  as  though,  from  childhood  up,  they  had  been  my  one  greed 
and  desire.  Even  then,  as  if  for  proof  that  they  were  real,  my 
eyes  wandered ;  recognized,  low  in  the  west,  glaring  Altair  amid 
the  faint  outspread  wings  of  Aquila;  pondered  on  the  spark-like 
radiance  struck  out  by  the  moonbeams  from  the  fragments  of 
tile  that  protruded  here  and  there  from  the  crumbling  wall  beyond 
the  pool;  and  softly  returned  once  more  to  the  evil  bush. 

Then,  for  an  instant,  I  fancied  that  out  of  the  nearer  shadows 
a  half-seen  form  had  stolen  up  close  behind  me,  and  was  watching 
me.  Fancy  or  not,  it  caused  me  no  fear.  I  turned  about  where 
I  stood,  and  from  this  gentle  eminence  scanned  the  immense 
autumnal  garden  with  its  coursing  night-birds  and  distant  motion- 
less woods.  No ;  I  was  alone ;  by  my  Self  ;  conscious  only  of  an 
unfathomable  quiet;  and  I  stooped  and  took  up  one  of  the  ripe 
fruits  that  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  "Ah,  ah !"  called  a  far-away 
voice  within  me.  "Ah,  ah !  What  are  you  at  now  ?" — a  voice 
like  none  I  had  ever  heard  in  the  world  until  that  moment.  Yet 
I  raised  the  fruit  to  my  lips. 

Its  bitter  juices  jetted  out  upon  cheek,  mouth,  and  tongue, 
for  ever  staining  me  with  their  dye.  Their  very  rancour  shocked 
my  body  wide  awake.  Struck  suddenly  through  with  frightful 
cold  and  terror,  I  flung  the  vile  thing  down,  and  scoured  my 
mouth  with  the  draggled  hem  of  my  skirt.  "Oh  God!  oh  God!" 
I  cried ;  then  turned,  ran  a  few  steps,  tripped,  turned  back  and 
cast  myself  down,  crushing  my  eyes  with  my  hands ;  and  in  help- 
less confusion  began  to  pray. 

Minutes,  hours,  passed — I  know  not.  But  at  last,  with  throat 
parched  and  swollen,  and  hands  and  cheeks  and  scalp  throbbing 
with  an  unnatural  heat,  I  raised  my  eyes.  Two  moons  were  in 
the  sky,  hideously  revolving  amid  interwoven  arcs  of  coloured 
430 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

light,  and  running  backward  and  forward.  I  called  out  in  the 
silence.  A  gigantic  nightjar  swirled  on  me,  plucking  at  my  hair. 
A  maddening  vertigo  seized  me.  I  went  stumbling  and  staggering 
down  to  my  stone  and  drenched  head  and  breast  in  the  flashing 
black  and  silver  water. 

It  was  a  momentary  refreshment,  and  in  its  influence  memory 
began  droning  of  the  past.  Confused  abhorrent  images  mocked 
my  helpless  -dreamings.  There  was  a  place — beyond — out  of  these 
shadows,  unattainable.  A  piercing,  vindictive  voice  was  calling 
me.  No  hope  now.  I  was  damned.  In  senseless  hallucination 
I  began  systematically,  laboriously,  a  frenzied  search.  Leaf, 
pebble,  crawling  night-creature — with  slow,  animal-like  care,  I 
turned  them  over  one  by  one,  seeking  and  seeking. 


43i 


Lyndsey 


Chapter  Fifty-Five  and  Last 

AND  yet  again  I  pause — long  after  these  last  words  were 
written — to  look  back  across  the  intervening  years  at  that 
young  woman.  What,  indeed,  was  her  insane  mind  seek- 
ing: what  assurance,  reconciliation?  I  know  not,  but  there  she 
herself  was  found,  nails  worn  to  the  quick,  feet  shoeless,  a  hunted 
anatomy.  Her  fret  and  fever  were  to  pass  away;  but  what  has 
all  this  experience  done  for  me? — that  wildest,  happiest,  cruellest, 
dearest,  blackest  twelve-month  of  my  life?  One  more  unanswer- 
able question.  But,  thank  God,  I  live  on;  have  even  finished  the 
task  I  set  myself ;  and  in  spite  of  fits  and  moods  of  depression, 
distaste,  and  weariness,  have  been  happy  in  it.  Even  when  most 
contemptuous  and  ashamed  of  myself,  I  have  still  found  comfort 
in  the  belief  that  truth  is  a  wholesome  medicine,  though  in  essence 
it  be  humanly  unattainable.  And  my  work  has  taught  me  this 
too — not  to  fret  so  foolishly  as  once  I  did,  at  being  small  and 
insignificant  in  body ;  to  fear  a  great  deal  more  remaining  pygmy- 
minded,  and  pygmy-spirited.  I  used  to  tiy  to  set  myself  against 
the  World — but  no  need  to  enter  further  into  that.  We  cannot 
see  ourselves  as  others  see  us,  b|ut  that  is  no  excuse  for  not  wearing 
spectacles ;  and  even  up  here,  in  my  peaceful  lonely  old  Stonecote, 
I  must  beware  of  a  mind  swept  and  garnished.  Moreover  my 
hour  must  come  again:  and  his. 

That  being  so,  of  this  I  am  certain;  that  it  will  be  impossible 
to  free  myself,  to  escape  from  this  world,  unless  in  peace  and 
amity  I  can  take  every  shred  of  it,  every  friend  and  every  enemy, 
all  that  these  eyes  have  seen,  these  senses  discovered  with  me. 
I  knozv  that.  And  perhaps  for  that  very  reason,  in  spite  of  the 
loving  gratitude  that  overcomes  me  at  the  thought  of  what  my 
existence  might  have  been,  I  sometimes  dread  the  ease  and  quiet 
and  seclusion  in  which  I  live.  And  this  tale  itself?  As  Mrs 
Monnerie  had  said,  what  is  it  but  once  more  to  have  drifted  into 
being  on  show  again — in  a  book?     That  is  so;  and  so  I  must 

435 


Memoirs  of  a  Midget 

leave  it,  hoping  against  hope  that  one  friend  at  any  rate  will  consent 
in  his  love  and  wisdom  to  take  me  seriously,  and  to  remember  me, 
not  with  scorn  or  even  with  pity,  but  as  if,  life  for  life,  we  had 
shared  the  world  on  equal  terms. 

M. 


436 


NOT   I! 

As  I  carne  out  of  Wiseman's  street, 
The    air    was    thick      with    driving 

sleet; 
Crossing   over  Proudman's  Square, 
Cold    clouds    and    lowering    dulled 

the  air; 
But     as   I     turned  to     Goodman's 

Lane, 
The  burning  sun  came  out  again; 
And  on  the  roof  of  Children's  Row 
In  solemn  glory  shone  the  snow. 
There   did   I   lodge;    tnere   hope   to 

die: 
Envying  no  man— no.  not  I. 
—[Walter     De     La     Mare,     in     St. 

Nicholas. 


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